


Honeymoon in Hell

by Scattered_Irises



Series: Of Lace and Porcelain [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate crack ending available, Blood and Gore, Brief non graphic smut scene, Dismemberment, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Gore, Horror, Letters, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of incest, Mouth trauma, Mutilation, Nightmare Fuel, Nonconsensual Body Modification, Oh yes it's back, Poetry, Revenge, living dolls, teeth horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 30,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23136439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scattered_Irises/pseuds/Scattered_Irises
Summary: With the alternate title of: Thomas Arclight goes to hell.From the fire, the dolls awaken. They are surrounded in blissful fantasies, all of their previous memories sealed. In worlds where the sun eternally shines and the flowers are in perpetual bloom, what else is there to ask for?To awaken is to remember. To awaken is to live. And dolls did not live. Once they opened their eyes, they were punished. They were not innocent. The amount of sins each person possessed was different, and each person was punished accordingly. A personal hell. A personal heaven. No heart is completely pure.When Thomas awakens, he realizes that he can never run from his greatest sin and that his beloved dolls had been waiting for him for a very, very long time.The long-awaited sequel to 'Of Lace and Porcelain'
Series: Of Lace and Porcelain [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663063
Comments: 43
Kudos: 23





	1. Rosea Innocentia

_ Rosea Innocentia _

What joy! Mr. Bear has arrived just in time

Being late is such a crime. 

_ Rosea Rosa  _ is always punctual, unlike the others. 

The flower-shaped cookies smile at  _ Rosa  _ and she takes another.

_ Clik clak! _

__ chirps the chinaware.

_ Twee twa! _

sing the birds.

The tea is poured, amber and fragrant. 

_ Rosea Rosa  _ always has the same cup of chamomile

All the while

The rabbits enjoy their various fruit teas. 

Chamomile, chamomile, chamomile. 

_ It helps Rosea sleep. _

_ It helps Rosea sleep. _

_ It helps Rosea sleep. _

_ It helped Rosea sleep.  _


	2. Mictlan

The rose garden’s fragrance fills Rose’s senses. In the distance, she can hear the laughter and music of the fair. Timothy Rabbit promised that he’d return by noon for their tea party. So did Polly Parakeet. Rose’s eyes turn to the clock at the center of the garden.  _ Noon.  _ Yet none of her friends had arrived. Silly friends! They were always late to their tea parties, even if the tea party had their favorite scones and jams. 

Rose sighs and continues looking over the gate. It was such a pity that a tea party of this proportion was going to waste! There were cupcakes, scones, macarons, chocolate and various other sweets on the table, tempting Rose to take one nibble without her friends. What kind of hostess would she be if she did that though? Regardless, she turns back to the table and pours herself a cup of chamomile tea. Her plastic hands have a difficult time grabbing the teapot, with their fused fingers, but she manages to grab the teapot and pour into her cup without a splash. 

Congratulating herself on a job well done, Rose sets down the teapot and prepares to take a spoonful of sugar to her tea when she hears laughing voices grow closer. Bertha Cow’s deep laughter is heard. Rose wryly shakes her head and adds the sugar to her cup. 

“Rose! Rose! Rose!” calls Jerald Giraffe as he runs into the garden. “We’re ever so sorry that we’re late! Benny Bull wanted to go one more time around the carousel!” 

The stuffed giraffe seems genuinely sorry, as do his other friends. Ice cream stains smudge his overalls and his hair is mussed. He takes a seat at the table and begins to pour himself tea. 

“Quite alright, Jerald,” says Rose calmly. 

They would always be late, however, as her best friends, she couldn’t begrudge them. There were always things happening outside of the garden. 

“Did you see or eat anything interesting?” she asks. 

Ella Elephant lets out a trumpet from her stuffed trunk and claps her hands delightedly. 

“Oh, did we! There was a snake charmer and—and—a house of mirrors!” 

As the stuffed animals began to take their seats and take the treats, Rose smiles and relaxes. Although her friends were always late, they would always arrive eventually. 

“You should join us at the fair someday!” chirps Polly Parakeet. “You would love the sweets there!”

“As much as I would love to partake in the festivities, my master says that I am far too delicate for such things,” murmurs Rose as she takes a sip of her tea. “And the stains on my dresses would make my master ever so cross with me…” 

Just to be sure, Rose adjusts her bonnet and straightens out her skirts. 

“I have just as much fun here as all of you at the fair.”

Nods and declarations of agreement follow Rose’s statement. Rose smiles and takes another sip of her tea. 

“Why don’t you take a madeleine?” offers Timothy Rabbit. 

“Oh dear, the truth is, I have an aversion to pastries,” confesses Rose. “I don’t know why, but I just dislike them.” 

“More for me!” laughs Bertha Cow. 

For such a sweetly dressed doll, it was ironic that Rose preferred bitter foods. She can’t remember the last time she was able to have any, but she knows that she likes them. Pouring herself more tea, she adds in sugar and takes a sip. 

_ Cree… _

The sound of the gate opening causes all attention to turn to the back of the garden. A figure stands at the gate, slowly making their way through the flowers. 

“Might there be room for one more?” asks a soft voice. 

Rose looks around the table and sighs with relief when she sees an empty seat. 

“Of course!” Rose calls. “The more the merrier!” 

When the figure makes its way to the table, Rose’s eyes widen. Unlike the other stuffed animals, the figure was human. From afar, the feathers around the man’s head made Rose mistaken him for a bird. He wore a necklace of gold and turquoise and a cape of deep blue. In one hand he held a staff bedecked in feathers and gold. Solemn brown eyes looked down at Rose, causing her heart to skip a beat.  _ An Aztec priest,  _ whispers a voice in her head. 

Fear at the stranger silences the once-jovial tea party. The stuffed animals quiver at the new doll and shy away when he takes a seat. Yet all Rose feels is an unexplained attraction towards the stranger. 

“Wh...what is your name?” asks Rose. 

“I am a Quetzalcoatl-Totec Tlamacazqui priest. I have not been named yet,” replies the newcomer. 

“I’m...Rose,” replies Rose awkwardly. 

The priest’s sharp eyes narrow. 

“You lie,” he says. 

Rose lets out a laugh. Why would she lie about her own name? 

“Of course it is,” she says with a nervous smile. 

“You were the one who wished to create me but were betrayed in the end,” says the priest. “Remember your name.” 

Rose turns to her stuffed animal friends for assistance, yet their glass eyes look at her with stricken fear. In the distance, the music from the fairgrounds have stopped. 

She was named for the beautiful flowers in this garden. They were pink and beautiful, just like her. And that’s all she knows.

“It’s Rose. I have no other name,” says Rose nervously. 

She fumbles for her cup of tea and realizes that her fingers have become unstuck. As she lifts the cup to her lips, she realizes that her hands are shaking. 

“Little one, you were the one who tended to my people’s belongings, long after we had become dust. Remember your name,” urges the priest. 

Rose continues to drink, continuously pouring tea into her cup whenever it became empty. When did she get such a habit? 

The priest stands and walks towards Rose. He gently places a hand on Rose’s shoulder. 

“To the East. You must make your way there,” he whispers. 

_ Where warriors and sacrifices went,  _ says a voice in Rose’s head.  _ Mictlan.  _

How did she know this? 

Rose looks towards the darkening sky and follows the priest’s finger.  _ East.  _

“Little one, do you not realize that you have left the world of mortals?” 

“I…”

Rose was a doll. Dolls did not die. They only shattered. 

_ Chamomile tea, just like this.  _ Rose looks down at the cup in her hand. Once again, her fingers twitch, each one on their own. 

“I…”

“Remember your name.” 

_ Aztecs. Atlantis. Chronomaly.  _

Rain begins to fall. 

_ Tlaloc. Aztec god of rain. _

__ His frilly pink dress would be ruined. Master would be so furious.  _ His?  _

His. Rose swallows hard and looks at the stuffed animals in the rain. The rumble of thunder is heard in the distance. The roses in the garden have begun to sag under the weight of the rain. 

The priest remains unbothered by the downpour. 

“Your betrayer is about to enter the realm of the dead. You must meet him.” 

Quietly, the priest procures a sword from his side and presents it to Rose. 

“As you tended to my staff, I tended to yours.” 

A part of Rose shies away from the sharp blade, yet another part reaches for it. With one hand wrapping around the hilt, the other hand edges towards the blade. With his body moving on its own, Rose lets out a hiss of pain when his hand cuts itself on the blade. Red wells up from the wound and melds with the rain. The sight of the brilliant crimson stuns him. He bled. 

_ He bled. _

Dolls did not. 

He stares at his palm, now dyed in his own blood. _Michael,_ whispers a voice in his head _._ The roses have turned to brown mush under the torrential rain. _Michael._ Yes. That was his name. Gripping the blade tighter, he looks up at the priest. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

“Now you must destroy this illusion,” commands the priest. 

Ignoring the pain in his hand, Michael grabs the sword with both hands and looks around at the garden. Ruin. Decay. The tea party table is filled with cobwebs. The absence of pastries brings a twinge of relief into Michael’s heart. He had been forced to eat pastries every single day of that miserable existence, no matter how much they clawed their way down his throat. The chinaware is cracked and yellowed with age. What were once his friends have turned into abandoned toys, their stuffing crawling out at the seams. 

“Rose, Rose.., don’t be cross with us...” call the toys in their distorted voices. 

“That isn’t my name!” shouts the youth. 

Disgust fills Michael’s expression and he swings his blade across the row of rotting animals. He swings and slashes until he is surrounded in a flurry of stuffing and broken china. The rain pours down harder and his clothes become stained with mud. With disinterest, the priest watches the carnage unfold. When Michael approaches him again, he throws the blade at the priest’s feet. 

“Now do what you must.”

Gingerly, the priest takes the blade and looks at Michael. 

“The goodness in your heart outweighs your sins. You will have the lightest punishment out of all your brother’s victims,” says the priest. “Do not lose sight of your path.”

The blade plunges into Michael’s chest, yet he feels no pain. With deft hands, the priest removes Michael’s heart, unmoving, yet fresh. 

As Michael falls into the mud, he knows that he would have his revenge. 


	3. Precious Queen, What Do You See?

Precious Queen, What Do You See?

Her skin is white. White like snow, white like the clouds. 

The white paste smeared over her face every night and every morning has become like a second skin to her. 

She takes great pride in the way her scarlet red lips are painted like freshly spilled blood in a field of untouched snow. 

The master always makes sure that she is the most stunning.

After all, she is the queen. 

She loves her eyelashes, especially sewn onto her skin in delicate stitches. They flutter delicately, rimming her sapphire-blue eyes. And her rouged cheeks...just like roses in a field of lilies. 

She’s lovely. She’s gorgeous. No one else has hair finer than her, coiffed into a tower of curls and flowers. She loves it especially when she has pearls in her hair.

She is the fairest one. There is no doubt. The master’s precious queen. And nothing else. 

Not V. Not Chris. Not even brother. He is just a lovely doll. 

Staring into the mirror, he can’t help but admire how lovely he is. 

_ He’s disgusting, with a face covered in white paste and bloody red lips painted in the center of his mouth. His hair looks unnatural because it is only a stiff wig, his real hair all fallen off. He’s starving. He’s desperate. And he’s dying. _

He can’t make Thomas sad again. Not after all he’s done.

A doll. A doll. A doll. 

That is what he must be in order to earn Thomas’s forgiveness. 

Thomas compliments him on his lovely face, so perfect and pale in the mirror.

And the doll queen smiles magnanimously. 

She loves being beautiful.


	4. Corona Borealis and Ivory Keys

_Clink. Clink. Clink._ The doll queen makes her way down the polished marble halls, her subjects bowing all throughout. _Clink. Clink. Clink._

As she makes her way to the throne of porcelain roses and polished marble, she looks at her reflection in the glass hall. Clear blue eyes. Slender limbs. Her favorite sky blue dress festooned with flowers. Perched atop her hair is a birdcage, a stuffed bird in its midst. Priceless pieces of jewelry adorn her neck, catching the light with every step she takes. None had ever set eyes on such a stunning doll as her and her hollow chest fills with pride. 

Like her subjects, the only sound she makes come from her porcelain limbs moving. Her lips have been painted on, never meant to open. In her kingdom of silence, she reigned supreme as the most beautiful of them all. She lifts her skirts in preparation to take her place at her throne. As she ascends the glass steps, she takes a moment to admire the soft glow of the setting sun pouring through the high windows. Tomorrow, she will take a stroll through the gardens. 

As she takes a seat, her subjects stand and begin to gather at her feet. In rehearsed movements, they begin to dance. The absence of music is replaced by the sounds of hundreds of porcelain limbs clinking together. Contentedly, she watches her subjects dance underneath the chandeliers. In the corner of the grand ballroom, a piano sits, unused. But who would ever use such a silly thing? All of her subjects, including herself, had fingers of carved porcelain, stiff and unmoving. Someday, she would need to have the piano removed. It impeded the scene of beauty and perfection in front of her. 

Order. Something a kingdom needed. As the sun sets lower, she feels a twinge of excitement in her chest. Soon, the stars would arrive. 

Amidst the swishing of silk and brocade, she feels herself sway to the silent rhythm. On the lavish banquet tables sit an array of cakes and pastries, all made of ceramics. It would be silly for the food to be made of actual foodstuffs, for porcelain dolls could not open their mouths to eat. Instead, they subsisted on beauty. Left in a filthy place, they would eventually starve, their clothes dirtied and their porcelain skin cracked. If they were taken care of and placed in a place of beauty, they would shine brighter than before and age with grace. 

That was how things were. The doll queen herself had been nourished with the utmost love and care. From the beginning, she had been created from love. Her arms and legs were created with painstaking detail. Her soft body was filled with the highest quality cotton. Every morning and night, her hair was brushed to a smooth sheen. She changed dresses three times a day, one for the morning, one for tea and one for supper. And everywhere she went, there was beauty. Scintillating chandeliers. Marble floors so clean that one could see their reflection, clear as day, in the stone. Fresh flowers in every room, their pure aroma covering her with their musk. Her master’s love was the reason why she was here today. 

As the first dance draws to a close, she nods in approval and makes her way down the steps. Today, she too would partake in the festivities. A particularly dashing courtier offers her his hand and she takes it. Gazing into his cornflower blue eyes, she is reminded of someone, yet she cannot remember the name. With grace befitting her title, she and the courtier make their way to the center of the room and commences the second dance. 

_Clink clink clink. Clink clink clink._ Like hundreds of tiny bells, the porcelain dolls dance, their shadows growing long as the sun sinks into the sky. The two sweep past the piano and the queen’s eyes brush past the ivory keys. A sudden sense of longing fills her chest, however, she quickly quells the feeling. How absurd. She wouldn’t have been able to play the piano even if she wanted to. She would have made a fool of herself. 

As the blanket of night envelops the sky, the dolls stop and bow to each other. The queen graciously curtsies to her partner and makes her way to the window. Stars have begun to fill the sky and the same sense of longing returns. What did she, a queen, possibly want? Everything under her domain was enough to satisfy any ruler. She looks down at her jewelry and back up at the stars, suddenly feeling that they were inferior to the radiance of the celestial spheres. Hesitantly, she slips her bracelets off and looks at them once again. Radiant pearls. Blood-red rubies. Blue sapphires as blue as the depths of the ocean. Beautiful...but…

Her gaze trails back up to the night sky, where the stars have begun their own dance across the twilight canvas. _Longing._ But for what? 

_Clink._ She reaches out her hand as if to catch a star. _Clink._ When something falls into her hand, she steps back in surprise. _Warmth._ Warmth? Porcelain dolls should not be able to tell what heat felt like. They were always cold. Looking at her hand, she sees a round glass lens. In the night sky, the constellations have arrived. She places the glass lens in her dress pocket and looks back up at the sky. _Lyra. Hercules. Corona Borealis._ Her favorite. A small crown, perfect for a delicate head such as hers. 

Turning to the corner where the piano stood, she decides to walk up to it and investigate. What was such a useless thing doing here in the first place? The ivory keys are covered in dust and revulsion fills her. Circling the piano, she frowns when another disused item sits folded besides the piano. The dark blue telescope is covered in cobwebs and has no lens. Taking out the lens from her pocket, she compares its size to the hole in the telescope. When she supposes that the lens could fit, she approaches the telescope and places it into the hole. 

_Click._ The lens fits into place and the telescope seems to have shed a layer of dust. Curious, the queen hooks the legs of the telescope through her unbendable arms and carries it over to the window. Placing it in front of the window, she peers through the glass and marvels at _Corona Borealis._ There were many nights where she had gazed at the stars endlessly, reveling in their beauty. Other nights, she had regaled others with tales of mystery and enchantment. A story that she fondly remembers telling was the myth of Narcissus. A vain and foolish youth who…

Dolls could not speak. Therefore they could not tell stories with their voices. The ridiculous thought of her being able to speak causes her to laugh. 

_Clink. Clink. Clink._ The sounds of porcelain stop, yielding to a deathly silence. Turning around, the queen shifts uneasily as her subjects stare at her. No. It wasn’t possible that she could laugh. She was mute, just like them. Glass eyes of all colors gaze at her lifelessly, coupled with painted lips. Signalling for the dolls to resume their dance, the queen uneasily turns back. She did not—could not—have laughed. 

However, the silence persists. 

“I did not laugh,” a voice, regal and deep declares.

_No._ The queen’s hand flies to her mouth. _NO._ That was not possible. She, like the others, could not bend her arms. But there they were. White and elegant. Bent over her disgustingly warm mouth. _Warmth._ Looking at her hands in shock, she sees that her fingers have become unstuck. What was happening? She feels her lips tremble and her breath brush against her fingers. 

But dolls could not breathe. 

“Please, resume your dances,” she commands. 

But that voice could not be hers. It was too deep. Surely, she would have an elegant, soft and feminine voice if she spoke? Yet it had come from her mouth. 

_Clink. Clink. Clink._ The dolls begin to approach her. Their expressions remain still, yet she can sense the hostility in their actions. She scans the room and feels her heart skip a beat when she can only see the telescope to defend herself with. But she would never roughly abuse such a thing, even if her life depended on it. That telescope had been gifted to her by someone she had loved dearly. It had been personally tailored for her, with her favorite number, _V,_ embossed on the side. _V._ The name of someone important. _V._

Rain. Someone calling his name that had not been V at that time. That same important person with the cornflower blue eyes. On that day, V had been born. He had abandoned that important person in the rain, his sad eyes widening in shock and betrayal. The look of abandonment. 

Abandonment. The word strikes fear into his heart and he remembers when his hair had fallen out in clumps. Silver, silver scattered across the filthy floors. All of it being pulled away. And he had been so sure that he would have been left out in the woods to die. When he wasn’t, he cried tears of relief and was glad to still be Thomas’s precious doll queen. 

“ _Oh Chris, you’ll always be beautiful to me,_ ” his brother had whispered reassuringly. 

Yes. That was his name. Chris. Short for Christopher. He lets out a hiss of pain as he is grabbed by dozens of porcelain hands. 

“Unhand me!” he snaps. 

Yet the dolls continue to tear at him and his finery. The cage perched in his hair rolls away. His necklaces are torn from his neck. They cut deep into his flesh and he lets out a cry of pain. Warmth drips down his neck and stains his bodice red. The sight of his blood further incites the dolls and they continue to rip into him with increased fervor. No matter how much he pleads for them to stop, the dolls remain deaf to his pleas. Sharp fingers dig into his stomacher and tear it off, snapping the threads and lace. When they reach his flesh, no mercy is shown as the hands plunge into his snow white skin. 

Christopher lets out a pained scream as his flesh is torn apart, revealing his ribcage. 

_Clink. Clink. Clink._ Hundreds of feet stomp onto the ribcage, fragmenting it into his sensitive organs. The pain is unbearable, yet the sweet release of death is nowhere near until Christopher realizes that he has already died. Lavender tea, prepared with the utmost care…

“AAUUGHH!!” screams Christopher as the hands dig into his lungs. 

The smell of blood permeates his senses. What remains of his dress is stained a dark red. Chunk by chunk, his lungs are torn out and thrown onto the pristine marble floor. Looking at his own flesh gives him a sense of liberation, and despite the pain, Christopher laughs. He had been human all along. 

When he feels the cold chill of porcelain on his beating heart, he sneers. 

“None of you were ever alive in the first place. That was why I was your goddamned ruler! I was your better!” exclaims Christopher as his heart is ripped out. 

As the dolls step over his desecrated body, Christopher turns his gaze to the macabre procession of bloodstained porcelain dolls holding his heart. Marching to the piano, they drop the heart onto the keys, eliciting a heavy **_dong_ ** _!_ from the keys. As Christopher’s vision turns black, he smiles bitterly. 

Yes. His heart had become quite heavy from the amount of sins that he carried. 


	5. Lola

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thomas day!

Lola

“Tomorrow,”

He promised.

“Okay.”

She says.

She’d be waiting then.

On the street corner. Where he usually parked.

So he could take her for a fuck or two. 

Like he usually would.

Because she’s a slut. 

Or so he tells her. 

Because she likes it.

He tells her, tearing her in two.

And if she screamed, he would hit her. 

Because she was supposed to like it. 

Like usual.

If she bled, he would And so she believed

XXX her and tie her her master’s words.

up until she Over and 

begged him over again

to let her he took her

go. But until she 

then he could no

would tell longer

her recall

that in truth her real name.

she liked it. So she became

Because she whoever the 

was a hell he

filthy slut who wanted for she

didn’t deserve no longer had 

his love. a name to be 

Or proud

else. of.


	6. Two faces, One Soul

Lola wakes up to the sun shining on her silicone cheeks. She luxuriously stretches, enjoying the springs and joints in her body  _ clip-clipping  _ to life. Stifling a yawn, she throws off her silk robe and rolls off the bed. The sheets are stained in bodily fluids and she licks her lips. They sure had fun last night. 

In her lingerie, she makes her way out of her master’s bedroom and into the hall. She should be cold, she supposes. But dolls—especially sex dolls—were not supposed to feel anything. Dust motes dance in the sun beams and the walls have uneven squares of pale and dark areas. Master never really liked photographs that were of himself. 

Running her fingers along the (cold???) walls, she drinks in the sights anew. The (soft??) carpeting beneath her feet had frayed at the edges. Windows lining the hallway had grown grimy with dirt and dust. Cobwebs laced the ceiling. Most of the wooden doors in the hallway had grown warped and stained. Three doors stand ajar in front of her and nonchalantly, she strolls into the first one. 

Painted soft coral, the walls of the room offered a homely atmosphere. On the walls were framed artifacts. In another corner are bookshelves chock full of textbooks and novels. Lola snorts when she passes by a display case covered in dust. Whoever had slept in this room had been a dorky nerd. Regardless, she can’t help but feel bad for the artifacts covered in dust. They must have cost a lot of money to amass and would have been better in a museum if they were going to collect dust like this. 

The floor creaks underneath Lola’s feet and she treads carefully onto the bed. A cloud of dust flies from the covers and Lola plops her head onto the pillows. She supposes she was laying on two pillows. One of cotton and one of dust. No one had been here in ages, most likely. 

It was a cute and cozy room, now that she pays attention. The shelves and display cases made the room seem smaller than it actually was. Maybe if she asks master nicely, the room can be renovated and made her own. 

Stepping out of the bed, Lola carefully makes her way out and into the next room. Dark blue walls with chipped paint greet her. Before the room had come to ruin, it must have exuded a calming atmosphere on the individual. The large canopy bed in the corner is covered in a blanket of dust, its silk sheets filled with moth bitten holes. A mahogany desk sits by the window, yellowed and curled paper stacked in ungainly towers.  _ Boring.  _

Stifling a yawn, Lola, opens up the closet. A telescope sits in the corner, disused.  _ It must’ve cost a fortune,  _ notes Lola as her eyes brush over the elegant curlicues and lustrous paint. Finding nothing of use to her but a pretty jeweled hairbrush, Lola closes the closet and turns to the mirror by the window. Giving her hair a few strokes, she looks up at her reflection. There she is. So cute and perfect. Button nose. Sultry and plump lips wearing plum colored lipstick. Bright eyes contrasting with dark purple eyeshadow and dramatic mascara. No wonder she’s master’s favorite. 

As always, the thing she pays the most attention to is her hair. Those curls didn’t happen naturally, you know! She has to carefully brush and brush and brush and brush and brush and...

_ Crick. Crisssh.  _ Spidery thin lines spread across the glass and Lola steps back. In the corner of the mirror, she can see a face with sharp and elegant features. The ghastly white skin contrasts with the person’s deep blue eyes that were so much like hers. Blood runs down the figure’s eyes, creating a stark contrast with the white surface they ran down. They share a brief glance and then the figure's crimson lips part open to form a scream. Before Lola can hear anything, the mirror shatters. Staring at the shards at her feet, Lola looks around nervously. Glancing behind her, there is no one. 

Putting the hairbrush onto the desk, Lola briskly walks out of the room and closes the door. Maybe she’ll find a nicer hairbrush in the next room. Slipping into the sunny yellow room next door, she smells sugar and grins. Master loves giving her candy, even though dolls didn’t eat. The sun seems to shine brighter in this room than the others’. Unlike the other grand beds in the other rooms, this room had a small queen-sized bed with sunny yellow plaid covers. The bookshelves are filled with a mixture of self-help and cookbooks. Photographs of flowers decorate the walls and frilly aprons hang behind the door. Under the window is a model tower, bedecked with countless windows. At the top of the tower is a bright pink heart and Lola giggles.  _ Cute!  _

Whoever lived in this room was probably still around. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere! At the edge of the bed are a pair of pink slippers and Lola nods in approval. The only color of fuzzy slippers should be pink. Exploring around a bit more, she walks into the closet’s corner and jumps when she sees the preserved butterfly collection hanging on the wall. A stunning blue butterfly stood out before the rest of the other butterflies. She’s tempted to touch, but something tells her that the owner would be upset. 

Opening the closet, she squeaks in joy when cheerful swing dresses greet her. They weren’t her style, but the person living here had fantastic taste! Sifting through the dresses, she gets to the back of the closet and grimaces in distaste when she sees a pair of suspenders and khakis. Must have been from an awkward phase. Pulling away from the closet, her attention once again refocuses on the tower.

Curiously, she walks up to the tower and inspects it. Hinges line the side and gently, she opens the tower. Unlike the detailed exterior, the interior is completely empty and grey. A limbless doll sits at the bottom and Lola raises an eyebrow. Picking the mutilated doll up, she frowns when she sees its face.  _ Gross.  _ Its lips were too red and its smile was too big. The hair felt almost plastic with all of the fixative that was in it. And its eyes. Maniacal. Desperate even. Setting the doll back in the tower and closing it back up, chills (??) run up Lola’s back. 

_ Someone was here.  _ Hesitantly, she turns around. The doorway was empty. But the room… Looking down at her feet, the carpet had black splotches. Dust now covered the shelves. Mildew ran down the walls. The pictures of the flowers had been replaced by pictures of the moon. Unlike the cheerful plaid sheets of before, torn, dishevelled and dark sheets of navy blue were scattered across the bed. She takes a step towards the door. 

_ Hiii….. _

_ Hiii….. _

_ Hiii…. _

Breathing. But from where? Not in front of her. Not by the bed. 

Hii...Hii...Hii...

_ Where else?  _

Slowly, Lola turns around. Her eyes widen in fear and the scream dies in her throat. The same plastic hair. The same blood red lips. Now life sized.  _ HII….HIII...HIII…. _ One of the adorable swing dresses hang from the emaciated body, its bodice slowly being stained red by the blood dripping from the smile that was too big to be genuine.  _ HII HII HIII.  _ Plastic arms bent at an angle are slightly outstretched towards him. Cold blue eyes rimmed by long lashes. HIIHIIHIIIHIII. 

The name almost rolls off of Lola’s tongue but before she can fully remember the name, a low and pained keen comes from the figure. 

“Reeeeeeeuuuggggghhhhhh…,” moans the voice. 

Before it can say anything else, Lola breaks into a sprint. Bursting out of the door, she can hear the sound of footsteps pursuing her. 

_ HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI.  _

That thing breathed. Lola didn’t. Right?

_ HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI.  _

__ She runs down the hall and it stretches endlessly before her. Not caring about where she went, she continues to run down the hall that suddenly had no end. Doors, all too warped to open, zoom by her in a blur. The carpet frays away into dust and she runs across bare floors. 

HIHIHIHIHI. 

Not daring to look behind her, she continues running. Walls crumble and crack. Windows cloud and break. Yet she continues running. 

She continues to run and run until the floors have smoothed out into marble. Elegant columns and stained glass windows begin to fill the hallway. Tapestries. Finally daring to look behind, Lola’s shoulders slump in relief when the figure pursuing her is just a dot in the distance. Somewhere along the way, its legs had fallen off it and was forced to resort to dragging itself across the floor. Satisfied, Lola smirks and begins to walk.

As the columns and marble floors fill her sight, she can see the end of the hallway. A throne sits atop a couple of stairs. Peering through the openings of the columns, she can hear the ocean and is hit with a wave of emotion. Taken aback, she looks at her surroundings in bewilderment. The decrepit mansion was nowhere in sight. Distantly, she can hear the cries of seagulls. Looking back at the hallway, a door is left ajar. 

Slowly, she walks through the doorway and into a room of mirrors. In the center of the room is a beautiful necklace, nestled in a display case. A golden emblem studded with rubies hangs from the chain and Lola feels a sudden urge to take it. Looking furtively around, she then pops open the case and hangs the necklace around the neck. 

Pain, pure and sharp, fills her head. 

But dolls couldn’t feel things—especially sex dolls—and—

_ “NASCH, _ ” booms a voice in her head. 

The name makes her jump. 

_ Clink. Clunk. Crick.  _ Pieces of her were falling to the floor, springs, screws and all. No, no, that wasn’t right. Those weren’t even her limbs in the first place.  _ Clink clunk.  _ Fleshy fingers wiggle in front of his eyes. 

_ NASCH.  _

Yes. That was his name. Nasch. And...Ryoga. Looking down at his clothes, he is once again in the golden armor of the king of the Poseidon lands. 

Bells, full and sonorous, peal across the land. 

_ Blessed be the savior of two bodies and one soul _

_ One to serve as Poseidon’s throat _

_ And the other to serve as Poseidon’s hand _

_ Shout and clap for the savior has arrived!  _

_ Two faces and one soul.  _

_ Here is to a rule of riches and power _

_ May the throat and hand ring in a new era. _

The folk song rings bitter in Nasch’s ears. What had always been sung at his and his sister’s birthday had turned into a ballad of false hope. What he had ushered in was war and an end to his people. Looking at the mirror, he sees his sister’s reflection and his heart wrenches in pain when he remembers what had transpired in the last few months of their lives. 

_ Two bodies. One soul. Mutual suffering. _

They would always be able to feel each other’s pain and experience each other’s emotions. Like bile, Merag’s hatred rises to his chest and mixes with his own. 

_ Thomas. Thomas. Thomas. Thomas.  _ The hated name repeats in his mind in time with the bells. He would get his revenge. Gritting his teeth, Nasch storms out of the mirrored room and towards the ocean. The air was thick with condensation and instinct told him that a storm was on the rise. Underneath his feet, waves churned with a darkness befitting the dark clouds beginning to fill the sky. There would be no priestess this time to call upon Poseidon. Only the king himself.

One body was the same as the other. After all, it was the soul that mattered. 

Removing his chestplate and mail, Nasch then withdraws his sword. Closing his eyes, he takes in a deep breath. Surely, if he was dead, it wouldn’t hurt as much? Gritting his teeth, he plunges the sword into his chest and pulls it down, creating a gash in his flesh. Throwing the sword to the ground, he then plunges his hand into the opening. Blood, black and viscous, oozes out of his chest. Feeling about his rotted flesh and bones, he can feel his head growing light. When his hand wraps around his heart, he exhales and yanks it out. 

_ Kersnapap.  _ The sound of his heart ripping free of his arteries brings a shiver down Ryoga’s back. When he extracts his heart from his body, its hefty weight doesn’t phase him. Two lifetimes of sin lived in that heart. With his vision swimming, he drops his heart into the ocean and collapses. 

_ Ker-plosh.  _

  
_ Great Poseidon, please grant my wish for vengeance,  _ he prays as the world dissipates into murky ink.


	7. From the Hymnal of the Αρνάκι Priestess

From the Hymnal of the Αρνάκι

Priestess

Born of two bodies and possessing of one soul

One to rule and one to throw

We shall grow, we shall grow

Once the blood of the priestess returns to her home

On seafoam chariot and sapphire comb,

The rains will pour down His blessings 

And we shall grow

Born of two bodies and possessing of one soul

The throat for the temple

The hand for the throne

The hand brings forth Poseidon’s will

And his subjects a great thrill

The slit throat upon the altar will reward us with valor

And bring upon our enemies a sickly pallor

Sing, O holy daughter! Sing in joy!

Clap and dance so that your father will hear!

That you will have no fear 

When He draws near!

Your eyes into milky pearls!

Your blood, fresh upon the waters!

Your bones rejoined with the coral and shells.

Your flesh returned with the fish!

Born of two bodies and possessing of one soul

One to rule and one to throw

We shall grow, we shall grow

For the honorable death of the priestess

Her holy blood shall flow! 


	8. From the Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on guys, we're going full Game of Thrones on this baby.

She sees through a world of brilliant color. Muted blues, greens and whites. Like a mother’s lulling voice, the constant _hush-hushing_ of the tides bid her goodnight. She can hear and see everything at the same time. She can hear and see nothing at the same time.

In and out. 

In and

out.

In

and 

out.

In

and 

out. 

Her chest rises and falls in time with the ocean. She was the daughter of Poseidon, the blood coursing through her veins capable of calling forth a typhoon and an army belonging to the gods. That was her role. 

Much like in her next life. A catalyst for the end. Not water, but fire this time. 

Her brother had turned into a vengeful warrior after the fire. That was his role. 

As a priestess, it was her role to be the sacrifice in dire situations. 

It was what she was taught from the beginning.

She supposes that was why she could never bear the sight of live sacrifices. They looked at her with their frightened eyes, begging to be spared their fate. And in their eyes, she saw herself. A young, frightened girl, born at the wrong time and wrong place. 

As the whirlpool tore at her limbs, the notion of honor flew to her mind. Was not her sacrifice supposed to be lovely and musical? Was not her sacrifice supposed to call upon the army of the gods? The daughter of Poseidon would always return to His domain on a carriage of sea foam and shimmering sea glass. But all she had seen was her blood and organs, torn to bits in the whirlpool.

A sacrificial lamb.

That was her role.

And today, she was…

“Step right up! Come one come all! Feast your eyes on the traveling puppeteer Samoht’s masterpieces! Today you shall witness a perilous battle between a valorous knight and a fearsome dragon, all for the sake of a fair maiden!” cries a man’s voice. 

She opens her eyes and sees the world in shades of magenta, red and pink. Blurry shapes, flickers of light. Everything and nothing at the same time. Behind the curtain of the puppet stage she sits, unable to move due to her strings being untouched. So far, she has no name yet. But once the curtains pull away, she supposes that the Narrator shall soon grant her one. Voices begin to fill the area, curious and awed. The language is unfamiliar to her, the vowels soft and the words flowing. Everything and nothing at the same time. 

“Such a lively audience today!” cheers Samoht. “The actors will be quite excited to meet you!”

One by one, the voices begin to simmer down. She can hear parents hushing their children. In turn, the children curiously whisper back. Laughs. Giggles. Distantly, a bird calls. And then, silence. Soon, her role would be assigned. 

She can feel the master’s hand pick up her rod. Slowly, her body comes to life. She is walked to the top of a tower and set to rest, her arms perched atop of the handrail. With a snap of the master’s fingers, the curtain rises. Awe-filled gasps arise from the audience. Pride fills the marionette’s chest. Truly, she was a work to be admired. In the master’s hands, she would come to life, her glass eyes shimmering with life and her movements fluid and graceful.

_Tip. Tap._ The Narrator strolls onto the scene, a cultured and elegant man. With a cough, he adjusts his monocle and rests his hand behind his back. The other hand holds onto an ivory cane. 

“Ah, I see today’s audience is hungering for a tale..,” muses the Narrator to himself. “And what shall it be?” 

A young child says something in the flowing language and the Narrator turns to the child. He smiles goodnaturedly and waves his cane at the audience member. 

“Now _that_ is a wonderful, if long-winded tale! Regrettably, our time is short today..,” sighs the Narrator as he checks his pocket watch. 

_Clink!_ The pocket watch clicks open, much to the audience’s delight. _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._ Glassy aureolin eyes scan the pocket watch briefly. The Narrator then deftly closes it and places it back in his pocket. A jolt of energy fills the man’s body as he comes upon a realization and he turns back to the audience.

“Which reminds me of a fantastic tale!” exclaims the Narrator with a smile. “The tale of the fair maiden Esmerelda, the dragon Cevrot and the Knight of the Trident! Without further ado, let us begin!” 

The Narrator takes his bow and strolls off the stage with ease, his cane clicking against the floor. Electricity crackles in the air as the audience holds its breath, captivated by the lifelike movements of the puppets. _Esmerelda._ That will be her name for today. She takes in a breath as she feels the master’s fingers upon her strings. Her eyes once again open and she sees the world of the tower and its bleak surroundings. Dry desert. Clear blue sky. Sweltering sun. Not a hint of a breeze billowing against her crisp white gown or stirring in her braid. 

“O, accursed dragon, if not for thy curse, I would have climbed out of this tower myself and slain thee!” deplores she.

Roaring fills the air and a shadow blots out the sun. Iridescent scales of indigo and midnight blue shimmer and descend. The dragon’s amethyst eyes shimmer with mirth as it touches upon the ground. Its fangs—larger than her head, glisten with blood. A long awaited wind blows, blinding her with dust. She coughs and shields her face against the dragon’s flapping wings. Once she opens her eyes, a youth with ginger locks and the same amethyst eyes looks up at her from the bottom of the tower. His freckles shimmer against the sun in the same shades of the dragon’s scales and Esmerelda scowls. 

_The hated magician, Cevrot._

“Ah, fair maid, do not boast of what you cannot do,” teases the mage as he mockingly bows. 

Esmerelda grits her teeth and her fingers grip the handrails tighter. 

“There will be a day when the seeds thou hast planted are reaped,” she hisses. 

Cevrot looks at her from underneath his eyelids and a reptilian smile fills his lips. 

“And until that day, you will continue to be my prisoner.” 

With an authoritative snap of his fingers, Cevrot raises his eyes to her fiery expression. 

“Now dance, fair maid!” 

The master’s strings seem to fade into thin air as her body comes to life. Her hand raises, the bell bracelets jingling in time. With each movement she makes, the bells ring out a joyful melody unbefitting of her situation. As she continues to dance, spurred on by the hateful magician’s curse, the sound of the bells bring her into a trance. Since when had they sounded so familiar? 

_Thyme. Sage. Cloves. A smoky, pungent fire. Drums._ _Αρνάκι._

The word snaps her back to attention. Gone is the desert, gone is the blue sky and sweltering sun. Only the world of magenta, pink and red remained, blurry colors once again filling her vision. _Everything and nothing at the same time_. When Cevrot speaks, he no longer has the playful and cruel cadence of the man she had despised. Instead, it is the master’s voice that she hears, deep and husky. 

“Such a beautiful dance, fair maid. You have provided me the day’s entertainment. Now rest,” praises the master as Cevrot. 

She feels her strings slacken and her body return to lead. Her eyes close as the tower is moved and the scene changes. The word from before nearly slips her mind. Only when she truly concentrates can she recall it again. Αρνάκι. Its meaning? Surely, she had known once for the word to have elicited such a reaction. Any further thoughts are interrupted by the Narrator. 

“And it was said, at that time, that a knight of great valor resided by the sea, a knight known as Hascna of the Trident,” boomed the Narrator. 

He pauses and she can hear the _pop_! of the pocket watch. 

“Of course, it is up to you to judge him on his valor.” 

_Click. Tip tap tip._ As the Narrator steps off of the stage, the sound of heavy footsteps fill the stage. _Clink. Clank._ Armor. _Clunk._ Something heavy being rested on the surface. Perhaps, a sword? 

“Spare a pint for the Trident?” asks the master, his excellent impression of a spirited warrior resounding across the stage.

“‘Course..,” agrees the bartender, his scratchy voice and shuffling heard.

A gasp from the audience as the sounds of rushing water arises. The brave warrior takes a hearty gulp of his ale. Once again, the master’s magic has captivated his audience and the fair maiden. 

The tavern is well lit and spacious. Well-used tables are spread across the wooden floors. Softly, music plays. Men in armor sit in corners, murmuring amongst themselves. When Esmerelda sets her eyes on the man at the head of the table, her heart stops. Hanging at his side is a mighty trident, sharp and sparkling. His armor of gold is polished to a sheen. Yet his face is obscured by a matching helm. 

“Many thanks,” says the knight as he rests his mug of ale. 

He walks over to another knight, quietly strumming a lute. 

“And does the singing knight have any tales to tell of tonight?” asks Hascna.

The knight in question smiles magnanimously. He plays a trill on his lute and walks to the center of the tavern. Hascna follows and takes a seat. 

“Only the tale of the imprisoned maid Esmerelda and the wicked mage Cevrot!” announces the knight as all attention focuses on him. 

Interested murmurs arise from the tavern’s inhabitants. Numerous chairs slide across the floor in an effort to get closer to the performer. From the wings, Esmerelda struggles to see. 

“Gather around, I say, and feast your ears upon this tale I had chanced upon from a traveling band of besotted mummers!”

The lute is strummed a few times and the tavern becomes silent. Esmerelda stirs as she hears the stringed instrument. Once before she had known a man that had played the lute beautifully. So masterful had he performed that he had drawn a tear from her eyes. 

_Since when could she actually cry? She was made of metal and wood_. 

What was that man’s name? He who had come from distant lands, with his strange customs and gentle language? Oh, how he could make the lute sing! From sad ballads to bawdry tavern music, his performances were guaranteed to move an eager audience! His name, his name, his name…

“And so the maiden was captured by the dragon mage and imprisoned in a tower of stone!” laments the talented knight. 

_Thinking of it, the lute player had also been a skilled swordsman._

Warm fires, joyful banquets by the sea...and the moon and stars, so lively and beautiful. How she wishes she could return to those times. The dancing too. Her favorite part. Before she could walk, she was taught how to dance the traditional dances of the temple. And the bells that clung to her wrists and ankles had rung so joyously with each move she made. For she was the…

“With each passing day, the maiden is forced to perform for the wicked mage’s amusement! It is rumored that to this day she awaits a knight to break her curse!” 

“And how would one reach her?” asks Hascna. 

A playful trill of the lute. The musician smiles and shifts his footsteps towards the east. He gives Hascna a conspiratorial look over his shoulder. 

“They say...that the tower is located in the deserts of a ruined kingdom, east of here. In order to reach the tower, one must slay the serpent of the gold oasis and pass the trial of the mirage queen. And then…”

Another trill of the lute. 

“You must defeat the mage in his horrific dragon form himself!” 

“A dragon?” scoffs Hascna. “During the Age of Heroes, they were all slain!” 

“Oh, oh, but not this one. He remains hidden from voracious adventurers like you,” teases the knight. 

Hascna grasps his trident and begins to head towards the door. 

“Then he shall be slain.” 

“You believe in this mummers’ tale?!” jeers a young knight. 

The golden-clad knight turns, his helm obscuring his features. 

“If there is a hint of truth to this tale and a dragon exists, I must see it with my own eyes,” declares Hascna. 

He closes the tavern door behind him, its echo giving way to renewed voices amongst the members of the audience. 

_Fssh._ The curtains close and the scene changes. Once again, she is rendered blind in her world of reds. With the help of his assistant, the master quickly changes the stage. Esmerelda closes her eyes as Hascna begins his journey to the gold oasis. The bard’s story once again fills her mind. His voice, mannerisms and lingering looks at Hascna were all so familiar. If only she could remember the face and name of that man! 

Blocking out the voices of the master, Esmerelda tries to reclaim the feelings of familiarity. She _had_ known this man before. She swears. Along with that word. _Αρνάκι._ Both things were on the tip of her tongue, a cresting wave. The ocean, the ocean...Perhaps the ocean was the answer? What was the ocean, in the first place, and how did she know such a word? All throughout her life, she had been with the master and his traveling puppet troupe. Had they visited a coastal town before? 

A place with water as far as the eye could see. Blue, everywhere. On the ground and in the sky. The clouds were white. The seafoam was white… 

“In my homeland, our religious women wear black robes and white scarves covered in black.”

“Truly? That sounds quite drab.”

She’s certain that the man smiled at that point. 

“Being a bride of God means a life of solemnity,” the knight answers. 

“Ah? My clothes are white, a sign that I, the daughter of Poseidon remains untouched until the day I am sacrificed,” she replies. “And these jewels are to signify that I am the _Αρνάκι._ ” 

“ _Αρνάκι…?_ ” 

There is a pause as the man murmurs that word to himself. Realization fills his eyes. And pity. But what did he, an Outsider know? It was an honor to be sacrificed. 

“If my Greek doesn’t fail me, that means…,” muses the knight. 

And she had smiled then, eyes filled with pride. 

“Yes. I am the _Αρνάκι_ Princess and _Αρνάκι_ Priestess.” 

“And do you sacrifice your namesake?” 

The breeze had stirred up then. She had taken in a deep breath and marveled at the beauty of the sea and the great blue sky. 

“Every full moon,” she had replied wistfully.

She can see herself now, a young teenage girl dressed in white. Gold encircles her body and jewels dot her belt. Her vibrant magenta eyes sparkle with life. _Merag,_ whispers the wind. And she stirs. 

But marionettes could not move without someone pulling their strings. 

When she opens her eyes, the world of blurred red returns. Shuffling is heard as the scene changes. The master pushes her tower into the midst of the stage. _Clip clop clip._ Hoofbeats fill the stage, interrupted by a fearsome roar. 

“Fear not, Esmerelda! I shall free you from the clutches of this wretched mage!” declares Hascna. 

Cevrot descends in his dragon form, stirring up a storm of dust. When Esmerelda opens her eyes again, she can see the desert and clear sky again. 

_Merag..._ whispers the breeze. 

Who? 

The wicked mage takes a step towards the golden knight and laughs. 

“I must commend thee on thy efforts of traversing the Desert of Poseidon. Might chance thy trident rest and thee savor the fruits of mine own paradise?” invites the mage sweetly. 

Esmerelda leans out of her tower. 

“Do not heed his words, o brave knight! Slay him!” she calls. 

“SILENCE!” booms Cevrot. 

She can feel her throat tightening at the mage’s command. _Just like back then._ As the water invaded her lungs and tore her apart, piece by piece. And then once more. The scar that ran lengthwise down her throat tingled whenever _he_ had touched it. _Merag,_ whispers the breeze in a louder voice. 

Cevrot takes to the skies and returns to his dragon form. He made a grotesque dragon, with long horns and burning eyes. His tail stretched long and sharp, each flick stirring up a powerful wind. An angry roar bubbles up from his throat as he dives towards Hascna. _MERAG!!!_ roars the wind as Cevrot passes the tower. As the knight and dragon fight, Esmerelda clutches the handrails tightly. No. This wasn’t her name. This had never been her name. 

The dragon’s serpentine tail lashes out at Hascna. Deftly dodging, the knight plunges his trident into the creature’s tail, locking it into the ground. A wounded screech escapes from the dragon and the world shakes from its cry. 

“ ** _MERAG!!!!!_** **”** screams the monster. 

Hatred fills its cry and a sharp lightning bolt of pain fills her body. 

“Auughhh!!!” screams Merag as the torrent of memories return. 

_Αρνάκι._ Lamb. The Lamb Princess. The Lamb Priestess. 

_One to rule and one to throw._

Nasch for the throne. Merag for the sacrificial altar. It had always been that way. The only time her belief had been shaken was when the knight from faraway lands arrived. _Durbe._ With his various talents and mannerisms, he had brought with him uncertainty and a new pair of eyes. 

“What would you have done, if you had not been born here?” 

The question asked by the earnest knight had caused her to laugh. She had been fated to be born here and only here, for she was the daughter of Poseidon. The prophecies had foretold of her and her brother’s birth for eons. To imagine a life outside of this was...impossible. Yet here she is, perched on top of a tower as a knight and dragon fought over her. A smile tugs at her lips, despite the master not commanding her to. 

**“** **_MERAG!!!!_ ** **”** roars the dragon in his distorted voice.

Yes. Merag. That was her name.

In another life, she had been a source of her brother’s pain. Even as a Barian Emperor she had been sacrificed. And then as Rio...A laugh escapes from her throat. 

_Αρνάκι. Αρνάκι. Αρνάκι._

Always a sacrifice. But not today. She stands straighter and pays no attention to the strings connected to her limbs. 

She will no longer be anyone’s puppet. 

Walking into the tower, she sees a sharp sword glinting off of the wall. Deftly, she takes it off of the wall and hisses as its weight brings her hands down. Taking in a deep breath, she makes her way back outside and puts a leg over the handrail. Looking down at the swirling sands, she tosses down her sword and watches as the blade plunges itself into the sand. _She had already died. What could a fall do?_

Closing her eyes, she allows herself to fall off of the tower and onto the ground. As Cevrot and Hascna were too busy fighting to notice her, she lands softly into the sand and once again picks up her sword. Looking down at her body to make sure that she was unharmed, Merag breathes a sigh of relief when everything appears unbroken. Looking back up at the tower, she sees it for what it really is and chuckles. _That? Keep her?_

The cardboard tower flimsily stands and shudders. Making her way towards the dragon, she hears the tower collapse. Pinned to the ground, the dragon slashes at Hascna to no avail. Stealthily, Merag climbs up to the dragon’s back, sword held in her belt. She grips the dragon’s scales and approaches its neck. Straddling the serpentine dragon, she withdraws her sword and plunges it in between the scales of the dragon’s throat. In shock, the dragon recoils and lets out a screech. Merag covers her ears and then hangs on for dear life as the dragon thrashes. 

“Go for the heart!” shouts Merag at the knight. 

Hascna nods and lunges for the dragon’s exposed stomach. With one hand, Merag withdraws her sword from the dragon, spattering dark blood across the sand. In a different area of the throat, she plunges in the blade again, eliciting another screech. 

“ _I_ am the hero of the story, _not_ the sacrifice!” bellows Merag as she withdraws the blade. 

Placing the blade across the dragon’s neck, she plunges the blade across the dragon’s neck, severing it from its body. Hascna deftly leaps away as the dragon’s head plunges to the ground. With her blade in hand, Merag jumps off of the dragon and in front of Hascna. Looking out at the audience, she can see nothing but faceless disks. Once again the flowing language fills her ears and she comes upon a realization. _The whispers of the long dead become unintelligible over time. They speak in the forgotten tongues._ The words of the old head priestess sends shivers down her spine. Of course. They were in the realm of the dead. 

Looking back at the dragon, she sees nothing but a mangled toy, stuffing pooling out of its neck. Turning back to Hascna, the knight meets her gaze with a hesitance.

“Show me your face,” commands Merag. 

“But..,” protests Hascna. 

“I command it,” booms Merag, using the voice her brother had used during unruly council meetings. 

Hesitantly, Hascna reaches for his helm. When he removes it, Merag remains unblinking. Purple curls. Blue eyes. A similar facial structure to hers. _Nasch._ Of course. His eyes did not register recognition to hers and Merag bites her lip. 

This place was nothing but a mirage, thought up by the master. _Thomas._ She grits her teeth at the name and draws her blade. 

“What are you doing that for? I did as you were told..,” says the knight, cautiously stepping back. 

His voice began to no longer sound like her brother. Instead, she hears Thomas’s voice. Merag shakes her head and grips her sword. The desert had vanished. In its place was a wooden stage, cheaply constructed. In her sweet, clear voice, Merag begins to sing as she approaches Hascna. Tonight, there would be no warriors saving blushing maidens. There would only be tragedy. 

_“Born of two bodies and possessing of one soul_

_One to rule and one to throw_

_We shall grow, we shall grow!”_

She swings her sword at Hascna and he nervously dodges. His hand flies to his sword, only to find that it had been left in the dragon’s heart. 

“Step back! Do not approach!”

Strings guide his limbs and his eyes bore no soul.

“ _Once the blood of the priestess returns to her home_

_On seafoam chariot and sapphire comb,_

_The rains will pour down His blessings_

_And we shall grow…”_

As a child, Merag had danced on her and her brother’s name day, bedecked in bells and jewels. The court and common folk had sang the Hymn of the Sacrificial Priestess as she danced, their voices melding into a beautiful melody that brought shivers down her spine. Born to die and raised to be slaughtered. Such was the fate of the _Αρνάκι Priestess._ She was everything and nothing at the same time.

_“Born of two bodies and possessing of one soul_

_The throat for the temple_

_The hand for the throne_

_The hand brings forth Poseidon’s will_

_And his subjects a great thrill_

_The slit throat upon the altar will reward us with valor_

_And bring upon our enemies a sickly pallor!”_

Only when she was dead did she have value. _Everything and nothing at the same time._ While her brother...She lunges for Hascna as she hits a high note, the wind crescendoing with her song. She slashes at his chestplate and he stumbles. With a kick, she sends Hascna into the sand. 

_“Sing, O holy daughter! Sing in joy!_

_Clap and dance so that your father will hear!_

_That you will have no fear_

_When He draws near!”_

Tears fill Merag’s eyes as she sings the line. How foolish had she been! And how cruel had she been raised, to think that her only purpose was to die a noble death! She looks down at Hascna and rests her foot on his chestplate.

_“Your eyes into milky pearls!_

_Your blood, fresh upon the waters!_

_Your bones rejoined with the coral and shells._

_Your flesh returned with the fish!”_

“I beg you, Esmerelda…!” calls Thomas’s voice.

“ _Born of two bodies and possessing of one soul_

_One to rule and one to throw_

_We shall grow, we shall grow!_ ”

She plunges her blade into Hascna’s neck and watches as his blood, the same black color as the dragon’s, flows into the dirt. Slicing open his chestplate, she cuts open Hascna’s chest and watches his still heart. Swallowing, she falls onto her knees and plunges her hand into Hascna’s chest. 

“ _For the honorable death of the priestess_

 _Her holy blood shall flow!_ ”

Softly finishing the hymn, she pulls out the heart and feels it in her hand. 

_Born of two bodies and possessing of one soul._

  
She was not surprised to feel the weight it possessed. Closing her eyes, she crushes the heart over her head, baptising herself with the black blood. A strong wind blows and the first and final thing she can see is the ocean, deep and blue. 


	9. Sold Seperately

Sold Separately

How swell! 

With your own Mrs. Arclight doll, you’ll never need to 

wash the dishes,

fold the laundry, 

cook,

vacuum, 

or sleep alone

ever again!

Absolute obedience.

Absolute perfection.

She’s always fashionably dressed

Not a single hair out of place

She’ll wear makeup for the rest of her life

And did I mention?

She can never leave you because you ripped off her legs!

At the end of the day, she’ll always be happy to see you.

And will happily listen to whatever you say because you glued her teeth together!

So she can never complain about

the heels you forced onto her,

the nightly love-making sessions,

how you mutilated her, 

or how she never got to say goodbye to her family!

A lovely, lovely doll, waiting just for you!

What are you waiting for? 

Buy your own Mrs. Arclight doll today!

*(Arclight mansion sold separately)


	10. "You Look Like You Could Use a Cup of Coffee"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 1975 adaption of the Stepford Wives was *amazing* and I will never forget Paula Prentiss' charismatic take on Bobby Markowe. The quote above is taken directly from the film.
> 
> Also, I was thinking of https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wDkjI7YMNbg this SNL Weekend Update skit when I was writing how Mrs. Arclight moved. *Giggles* "Oh, Barbie."

The coffee cake smells heavenly in the oven. Mrs. Arclight flicks on the oven light and looks at the rising cake with pride. Her husband would be so happy when he came home! She hums a melody and looks out the window. The sun shines against her plastic face and she wishes her smile could widen. It was such a lovely day. In fact, everything was so lovely! 

The kichen(?) was spic and span, the wood floor so clean she can see her reflexshon(?). And what a beauty she was! Thick, blonde curls, an in-season dress and a radiant smile! Her husband was a smart man, choosing her. Not only did she have the looks but she had the brains too! Sure, she couldn’t add and minus like he could (Because her plastic head was hollow), but she could take care of the house like the best of them. 

Speaking of taking care of the house, she supposes the spotless kichen counter could use some addishunal cleaning. It never hurt to be too safe, right? Walking over to the cleaning cabinet, she tries to open the door, which proved to be a bit of a challunj(?) because she couldn’t bend her elbows or move her hand. But that was okay. Mrs. Arclight always finds a way if it concerns taking care of the house! After a few tries, she is finally able to open the door and shivers with joy when she sees the array of cleaning products. 

Bleach, Lysol, sponges, brooms and dustpans are orgunized in neat shelves. She makes her way into the closet and picks up the kichen cleaner. Her hand slides through the handle of the bottle and she walks out humming a luhlahbye. Setting the cleaner on the counter, she stiffly bends down to the cabinet underneath the sink and grabs a pair of gloves. With diffeecultee, she slips the gloves on. The time it took to put the gloves on was worth it though. She couldn’t ruin her plastic hands with housework! That would make her husband sad and she hated it whenever her husband was sad. 

Getting back to the bottle, she squirts a bit of the cleaner onto the counter and takes a nearby sponge. Scrubbing the already spotless counter, she checks the mirror one more time and giggles. No matter how hard she worked, she always looked so pretty. It was a gift she was super proud of.

Ooh, maybe before her husband got home, she could change her clothes! Wouldn’t it just be swell if he came home to a delishus coffee cake and a wife freshened up and ready for whatever he wanted to do to her? 

Ah, but she should also vacuum (Hee hee, cum.) the upstairs, shouldn’t she? When was the last time she vacuumed…? Walking upstairs, she passes by the family fotograffs. There she was, with her husband. His head was cut off by the frame but her husband had told her that she was suhposed to be the main subject of the fotograffs, not him (And she had such a pretty smile so of course he was right). Another one with them at a picnic. His head was still cut off. Unlike her, he sat with bent legs and bent arms. Sometimes, she wondered how that felt like, the freedom of being able to bend your arms and wiggle your fingers. It would have been nice, she supposes. 

Although, her husband desurvud the freedom of mobilitee because he was smarter and better than her. While she…

Why didn’t she deserve the same things as her husband? 

...

Oh. That’s right. She was dumber and weaker. That’s why she married him, so he could take care of evureething. Silly Mrs. Arclight! Shaking her head and giggling, she opens up the upstairs cleaning closet after a few tries and takes out the vacuum cleaner. Oh dear. The plug didn’t have any handles. How was she going to hold it now? Trying to grasp the plug with her two hands proved fyutile. No matter how much she tried to squeeze her two hands together, they would always remain parted. But she didn’t frown (Because she couldn’t, in the first place). 

Mrs. Arclight always finds a suhlooshun to these things! Maybe when her husband got home he could plug the vacuum in for her? Sure, it would be loud and he didn’t like loud things, espeshully coming home from work, but hopefully the coffee cake would make it up. If not, she could always let him do her against the wall, on the couch, on the floor, or on the kitchen table. Wherever he pleased (And she would always clean up afterwards like a good girl)! Yes. That’s how she was going to vacuum the upstairs. How clevuhr!

Setting the vacuum to the side as a ruhminder, she walks into their shared room and decides to freshen up. 

Makeup? 

Check. 

Hair?

Check. Not a single strand was loose from the copeeus amount of gel she used. 

Shoes?

Hmm maybe they could use a change. 

Dress? 

Already 3 hours too old. 

The velcrow at the back of the dress would be diffeecult for her to take off by herself. Maybe that was why her husband changed her clothes for her instead of doing it herself. Ah, she supposes the dress could wait. But the shoes? No. Slipping off her imposiblee high heels, she picks them up and heads into the walk-in closet. Her dresses hang on one side while her husband’s clothes hang on the other. She takes in a deep breath and shivers with pleasure.There was nothing like the smell of clean clothes! 

Walking on tiptoes (Because that was how her feet were made), she places her pink heels down and slips on a pair of sky blue kitten heeled shoes. _Click clack!_ What a lovely sound they made as they clicked against the wood floors! 

Looking in the back of the closet, she pauses. Strange. One pink shirt and a pair of khakis hang at the back of the closet on her side. Walking over to investigate, she sees a pair of suspenders hang from the pants. She must have mixed the laundry up. Picking up the hooks with difeecultee, she brings them over to her husband’s side and pauses. Nothing but dress shirts and suits were on his side. And all of his clothes were shades of yellow and cream. But surely, these clothes didn’t belong to her (Especially the khakis! Blech!). Shrugging, she puts the clothes back on her side and considers calling up the donashon center. 

Walking out of the closet, she checks her reflection one more time and then glances at the calendar. _February 12th._ Something about the date made it speshul, but she can’t really remember. Was it her husband’s birthday? No...His was last month. 

Then why was she baking a caramel coffee cake? Making her way downstairs, she can smell the heavenly aroma of the cake and beams. Maybe she just liked baking cakes. Yes. That sounded about right. After all, she’s Mrs. Arclight, housewife extraordinaire! Come to think of it, what was her first name anyways?

Another calendar hangs by the window. February 12th is circled in red pen. Oh. So it _was_ a speshul day. But just what was so speshul about this day?! What could she have forgotten? _Think, think, think!_ But she couldn’t think much because a) she was a doll, b) because she was a plastick doll, her head was empty and c) even if in the rare instance her head was filled, it’d have been with pink plastick dreams (The best kind of dreams!). Regardless, she takes a seat on the couch (Where he did her last night. Tee hee!) and closes her eyes. 

_February 12th, February 12th, February 12th!_ Caramel, coffee...Hot cocoa? Yes. Hot cocoa. It was his favorite treat to go with the caramel cake. His? Who was ‘his’? Not her husband’s. He liked...cream puffs and tea. A British gentleman, or something close to that. This other person...caramel and hot cocoa. Fresh from the kichen. But they weren’t expeckteeng any guests today, were they? 

She keeps close track of whoever visits ahead of time so she can make sure that the house is espeshully clean that day. Opening her eyes, she picks up her planner on the coffee table and flips through the pages. 

Once again, February 12th is circled in red pen. She taps her plastic finger on the circle, as if touching it could give her addishunal infurmashun. Flipping through the other pages, other names and dates appear. Some guy named Michael’s birthday. Must’ve been a naybur. Gauche’s birthday. Droite’s birthday. Lots and lots of nayburs. Then her father’s birthday. June 5th. And then her mother’s birthday. December 2nd. 

Wasn’t their mother dead? 

Right? 

She had died giving birth to...No, no, that’s not right. She was...Was she an only child? The planner slides from her lap. Come to think of it, she can’t remember. _Ba-dum. Ba-dump._ There was a hole in her heart. Or, it felt like there was a hole. 

Heart? Why would she have a heart? She was made of pawsitivelee plasticky plastic. 

Flipping back to February 12, she feels a twinge of anger in her chest. Why couldn’t she remembur? And why did it make her so angry? She taps her fingers against the armrest in frustration. _Tiptiptiptiptip._ Looking at her hand, she forms a fist. Wait. _Wait._ She wasn’t supposed to be able to do that. 

…

...That’s right. She had formed a fist on that day too. One hand on the bars. The other hand reaching towards...him. As they pulled him away. They had held onto each other so tightly, yet were torn apart. And he had cried so, so much because February 12th was their special day. Mrs. Arclight (Was that even her real name?) pauses and looks at the calendar by the window.

Ah. That’s right. Something, two things, had happened that day. 

It had been a very special day indeed.

February 12th. The day of his brother’s birthday. 

And also the day that he was taken from him. 

Haruto. 

The name sends a lightning bolt of pain through Kaito’s body and he doubles over. 

Haruto. 

He had never gotten to say goodbye to his brother before Thomas did...all of that to him. And then killed them all. 

Haruto.

“Huuhh…,” keens Kaito through his teeth. 

Pain shoots up his face and something warm runs down his chin. He moves his hand towards the warmth and pulls away to see blood on his plastic fingers. _Bing!_ The oven alarm cheerily rings amidst Kaito’s realization. 

_He was dead._

Souls. He had taken so many. His soul had been stained black, all for the sake of saving Haruto. And he had known that he was going to Hell. 

Trying to open his mouth and speak proves futile, his two rows of teeth remaining locked together. 

“Heeee….!” exclaims Kaito as he tries to pry his teeth open. 

Even in Hell he was trapped in this disgusting body. His plastic fingers scrabble against the glued teeth uselessly as pain continues to shoot up his face. _Bing!_ The alarm rings again, more insistently this time. Blood continues to trickle from his mouth, staining the floor and his dress. 

“HEEE…!” he screams in anguish as his jaws remain locked. 

Looking in the window, he recoils in disgust when he sees his face. The same plasticky face, the same cheeks pumped with filler, the same unmoving smile and bloody teeth. Only his bloodshot eyes could move. Then what was the point of dying? He had supposed that in Hell, he would have been relieved of all of the torture Thomas had put him through. Was this his personal punishment? 

_Bing!_ The damn oven rings again and he lets out a screech of anguish. He thought that Hell would have had fire and demons, pulling apart his body slowly. Not...a perky, suburban dollhouse. Somehow, this was even worse. 

He tried to save Chris! He truly did! How did it get this bad? _Bing! Bing!_ Blood continues to drip from his mouth and pain continues to tear at his jaw. _Bing bing bing!_ Black smoke begins to flow out of the oven and the smell of something burning fills Kaito’s nose. Letting out a frustrated screech, he stands, his kitten heels slipping against the waxed floor.

Reluctantly, he drags himself over to the kitchen. It was a disgustingly perky place, with an immaculate fridge and sparkling countertop. There was not a single fingerprint on the cabinets and the utensils looked as if they had never been used. Looking down at the spotless floor, he makes a noise of disgust when he sees his reflection. This was not a home. This was a playset. Looking down at the smoking oven, he bends down and opens it. A flash of light blinds him and then a loud _bang!_ temporarily deafens him. Staggering back, he rubs his eyes and tries to shake the ringing out of his head. He lets out a moan as his immobile face muscles ripple in protest.

_Beep beep beep!_ The fire alarm returns him to his senses amidst the ringing in his ears. Rubbing his eyes one more time, he feels his heart skip a beat when he opens his eyes. 

The kitchen and living room were engulfed in fire, furniture and photographs melting into one. Ah. So this was Hell. Looking at his feet, the sky blue kitten heels are charred with black. _Plish. Plat._ Drops of...plastic? drip onto the spotless floor from his chin. His hand flies to his face and pulls away strings of melted plastic and paint. He can feel that one side of his face is sloughing, melding with the blood that was still dripping from his mouth. As the insides of his mouth meet with the melting plastic, he lets out a scream. Trying to drag himself away from the fire, he lets out another scream as he feels his legs slowly give way into useless, stringy puddles. 

Of course. Cheap plastic easily burned. 

It hurts, like nothing else. White, blinding pain from all sides of his melting, burning body. The chemical smell emitted from the plastic causes bile to rise up his throat. Yet there was no place for it to go but back down, as his teeth were permanently glued together. As he drags his melting body a few inches away from the oven, he feels his plastic arms sloughing and sticking to the floor. With each attempt to drag himself, the melting appendages proved to be less and less useful. When they were both nothing but puddles, he lets out a low keen. 

He had been human once, hadn’t he? A body of flesh and blood? It was hard to remember, when his body was like this.

_Crick crack. Ka-thunk!_ Something heavy collapses on his back and he screams as it further liquefies his torso. No longer able to move, he buries his face into the floor, inhaling the acrid scent of melting plastic. He can feel gobs of his face dripping onto the floor and lets out a broken scream as the burning floor touches his dripping face. Any further struggling proves futile as his vision darkens and the liquified plastic pools onto the floor. As his face melds with the hardwood surface, his screams intensify. Slowly, the plastic melts onto his eyeballs, obscuring his vision. 

“Huhuuoo…,” he moans, trying to call his brother’s name. 

Trying to remember his brother’s face brings more pain. Just like his own face, Haruto’s face was now nothing but a melted blur. 

“Huuuhhhhuuuoooo..,” he cries as the heat envelopes his body. 

The acrid taste of plastic drips down his mouth as the back of his hollow head collapses. It burns his tongue and slides down his throat, solidifying in a suffocating lump. As the plastic continues to flow down his throat and suffocate him, he suddenly thinks back to the doll he had abandoned as a child. Left in the sun, it too had melted a bit, didn’t it? It had become uglier than before and he had discreetly tossed it in the dumpster afterwards. Perhaps this was how it felt, to be abandoned and left to ruin. Unable to scream, unable to move and unable to see until you were just a disgusting puddle of cheap, melted plastic. 

His throat constricts as the flames lick their way up to his innards. Warmth, from the blood and the fire fills him and he prays for this to be over soon. But who would have heard him, he who was so far down in Hell? The benevolent gods could only hear the wishes of those who had a chance of salvation, not those whose hearts had been stained black through and through. No matter what he had said, he had not been ready for this. _Ba-dump. Ba-dump._ He can feel his heart continue its languid beating despite being coated in a layer of liqufied plastic.

Perhaps that was the only proof that he had once been human. 

_Crickle. Crack._ The sound of wood coming loose besides him creeps up his spine. _Ka-thunk!_ As the wall collapses on his body, he can hear a solid _thunk_ ! as the wall impacted with his heart. _Solid and heavy sounding. Why wasn’t he surprised?_ As the flames envelope his heart, he can feel his thoughts receding and his breathing lessen. _Ba-dump ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dum. Ba...dum…_ Had the gods actually heard him? He would have laughed had he not been in so much pain. 

Perhaps when he opened his eyes, he would see Haruto again and remember his face. 


	11. From the Desk of Thomas Arclight

From the Desk of Thomas Arclight

_Dear Michael,_

_How are your university studies? I miss your smile and warm tea here in frigid Moscow. Are you having fun? Being on tour is such a bore sometimes. All of these lights and partying all turn into a boring blur eventually. Once you experience something over and over again, it eventually becomes mundane, no matter how extraordinary._

_No matter how extraordinary._

_No matter how extraordinary._

_I think that this time I’ll send you this letter. I have so many that I’ve written to you over this period, however, you’re so busy and my letters always turns into incoherent rambling that I don’t want to bother you._

_Not a day passes that I miss you. What I wouldn’t give to skip a boring party and just have your head in my lap, both of us reading the same book (But in different languages, because you always enjoyed challenging yourself). How’s Chris, by the way? You need to look out for him. He’s a lot like father when he gets deep into his research. And by God, make sure he stays away from the laundry. I still have that shirt that he stained pink._

_You must have a lot of work so I’ll cut this short. Stay safe, drink water, make sure Chris doesn’t say anything insensitive about Japanese culture and most of all, write back._

_Thinking of you,_

_your brother,_

_Thomas Arclight_

***

_To my Elder Brother,_

_My tour is going quite well. I’m currently writing to you from my room in Monte Carlo. The ocean breeze is quite splendid. Have your attempts at contacting father yielded to any success? I’m quite sure he’s still out there and he misses us as much as we do. Sometimes, the memories become too much. I would know, for one._

_Of course, I am still attending my therapy sessions every Wednesday. They have proven to be quite successful. I understand that as my elder brother, you should be worrying about me, however, I must also express concern. Have you been drinking water regularly? Have you been eating properly? You know that your hair looks and feels a lot better when you take good care of yourself (And don’t try to deny it, preening is your guilty pleasure as much as it is mine)._

_I have met a splendid hair stylist in Monte Carlo. Within this letter, I have their business card enclosed. Perhaps give them a ring if you have the time? You know as well as I do that split ends are always around the corner._

_Ah. It’s almost time for the opening banquet. Please remind Michael to keep up on his studies but also exercise. Our six-pack competition still isn’t over!_

_Doing just exceptional,_

_Thomas Arclight_

***

_Ryoga,_

_I’m in Dubai and I saw their world-famous aquarium. You would have loved it. The sharks were especially captivating. One came so close to me, I thought it was going to smash the glass and bite me. Although, I don’t think I taste that good. Perhaps it was my looks. I always knew that my looks were universally appealing!_

_Next time that you’re on tour, maybe we could go together. You definitely must be here, in Dubai! You’re not the prince of the ocean until you’ve been to this aquarium! The seafood is also just as stunning. They served us lobster, fresh from the ocean. And the octopus was delightful! When you come here, I insist that you also try the street food. Positively delightful, especially the sweets. All in all, this has been a magical experience._

_I had become tired of touring until I saw the fish. I was reminded of you, finishing up your first year in university. This summer, we_ must _go to the Heartland aquarium (Or, or, Dubai, where we can stay in the underwater hotel rooms!). I can’t wait until you make your reappearance in the national duel circuit so that we can duel each other again. And this time, we will make the audiences swoon with our duel, no holds barred._

_Sleeping with the sharks,_

_Duel Champion Thomas “IV” Arclight_

_***_

_Dear Miss Kamishiro,_

_This is Thomas Arclight from Cape Town. Looking at the beautiful scenery and fair weather, I wanted to check in with you. How are your studies in law? I know that I don’t write to you often, however, this world tour of mine often has dull moments. Since you aren’t someone who enjoys flowery language, I shall be direct with you: I am writing this letter because last night, I had a nightmare about the fire again._

_Does this happen to you? I have been speaking with my therapist and I have discovered that I still haven’t fully recovered from the incident. Writing to you seems to help me process my emotions more than my therapist can. I know that we don’t talk often and that you may throw this letter away without a reply (Which is quite understandable), however, grant me this one statement: I am still haunted by my actions and, although you have forgiven me, I feel like I am not deserving of your forgiveness._

_Please tell me if you do not want to receive any further correspondences from me as I understand that the fire also holds unpleasant memories for you (Or merely choose not to reply to this letter). If so, I will never address a letter to you again (Although I will continue to write to your brother unless he says so). But if you allow me to continue to write, I have a letter by my side that I shall send promptly after your reply._

_I hope that you are doing well and that your accelerated studies are not causing you a significant amount of stress._

_Sincerely and regretfully,_

_Thomas “IV” Arclight_

***

_To Mr. Tenjo,_

_I hope that it is alright that I address you this way. It’s me, Thomas Arclight. I’m currently in Buenos Aires, which means that I’m almost done with my tour. I’ve decided to write to you about my brother and trust that you will remain silent about this. I may not be a good judge of character, but, it seems like you are someone who doesn’t tell others’ secrets._

_His birthday is coming up and I wanted to surprise him. I am unsure if I can return on time, however, I ordered a certain cake for him at Heartland’s Blue Moon Bakery. Did you know that he enjoys bitter, dark chocolate? There’s almost no sugar in any of his preferred candies! Once, I snuck a piece of chocolate from his stash and almost gagged (No, I did gag. Why am I telling you this?)._

_Anyways, the cake I ordered will be under the name of Narcissus Amaryllis. I didn’t want to attract any attention. If I am unable to make it home before his birthday, please pick up the cake on my behalf. In return, if there is any renowned mechanic shop in the parts of the world that I am in, say the word and I will purchase any needed parts for you (Although you must be very specific. I am quite unfamiliar with this subject)._

_Please wish my brother a happy birthday on my behalf when the day comes. What are you buying him? Please don’t tell me another cake. If you haven’t purchased him anything, I shall give you a few suggestions:_

_1\. He secretly enjoys playing pop tunes on the piano. Sanagi-chan recently released a few piano scores for her top hits._

_2\. He has been coveting a first-edition copy of Stephen Hawking’s_ The Theory of Everything _. Efforts to find it has so far eluded our family, however, perhaps you could find it?_

_3\. 96%-100% cacao chocolate tends to improve his mood, although I never understood how he could like such a thing._

_4\. Lavender tea, more specifically, White Bee brand._

_5\. At least once a month he has a milk bath. Purchasing some essential oils (Lavender, White Bee brand and Rosemary, also White Bee brand) could do for a small gift._

_Haha, see what I did there with_ “V” _suggestions?_

_Relying on your secrecy,_

_Thomas “IV” Arclight_

_P.S: I heard that you and your brother like caramel. There is a renowned sweets shop from my hotel that sells absolutely divine caramels. If you receive this letter in time and would like some, please tell me._

***

_Dear Father,_

_I am looking across the sea from Los Angeles and wondering where you are. What are you seeing through your masked world? Everyday we miss you, although the ache is lessening. I think we’re all doing fine, although we would be better with your presence. Michael is doing quite well in his studies, according to the letters he sent me. Christopher and Kaito are helping Dr. Faker establish a stable communications pathway between the dimensions. As for me...I’m doing as well as I can. The therapy sessions that Chris signed me up for are proving quite helpful. I’ve been writing to Rio every time I get a nightmare and that also helps. Dueling has become fun again, although I wish Ryoga would finish his studies sooner. No one gets me more excited than he does._

_On my travels, I have had a lot of time to think and reminisce. In some ways, we’ll always be a dysfunctional family. However, we’ve come to accept that fact. None of us are perfect (I would know). If you came back, we’d welcome you with open arms. We can be imperfect but happy together._

_Wherever you are, I hope that you are well. In about a week, I will be returning home, just in time to celebrate Chris’s birthday. Granted that everything goes smoothly, I will surprise him with that disgusting cacao cake he has been wistfully staring at for the past few years but never had the courage to ask for. Of course, if there is still time, I will also purchase a more appealing cake for everyone else. How does a mango fruit cake sound? Maybe we will save a piece for you in the freezer for your return. I always remembered how much you loved cake._

_Thinking of you,_

_Your son,_

_Thomas Arclight_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.


	12. I'm Sorry

He opens his eyes to the sounds of birds chirping. Starting, Thomas sits up in his bed and panickedly looks around. The fire happened, right? Hands flying to his face, he feels supple skin, the only scar tissue present over his right eye. But he had set himself on fire! Everything had been devoured in fire! Jumping out of bed, he looks around in fear. The same cream-colored walls. The same posters. The same dolls. Sylvia stares at him from across the room, the same stern expression she made when he slammed her over Chris’s head.

Running out of his room, his breath catches in his throat when the Arclight hallway stretches out in front of him. He had doused the hallways in gasoline. There should have been nothing left. Stifling the panic in his chest, he bolts into the doll room and looks around nervously. The same empty glass eyes and porcelain faces stared back at him. Not one was human. Closing the door behind him, he checks the dolls’ dressing room next door and is greeted by darkness. Crates and boxes lined the walls, an impromptu storage space. 

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he runs downstairs and walks through the halls. Everything was pristine. The family photographs had returned to their places. The carpets were still slightly stained and well-trodden. Well-kept artifacts were displayed on the walls and pedestals, not a single bit of dust on them.  _ Michael,  _ whispers a voice in his head. Seeing the pristine artifacts brings a rush of tears to Thomas’s eyes as he wanders aimlessly down the halls. 

_ How cruel he had been.  _ With each room he passes, memories fill his mind.  _ Just what had he done?  _ All of his victims must have suffered greatly. If there was a way for him to apologize, he would in an instant. As he enters the dining room, he feels a wave of pain tighten his chest. This was where they had their meals, all six of them, in a poor facsimile of the family he thought he had lost. Misery, nothing but misery had filled this room for the last few months. 

Seeing the white lace tablecloth, he feels a lump form in his throat.  _ His mother’s finest.  _ As he feels the pain further tighten his chest, he leans against the wall for support and forces himself to take in a deep breath. He was dead, wasn’t he?  _ Breathe. Please. Breathe.  _ If he was breathing, was he alive? 

“Thomas?” calls a soft voice he thought he would never hear again. 

Looking up, he is met by Michael’s worried expression. Thomas’s voice dies in his throat and he feels bile rise up his throat. Quickly placing the tea service on the table, Michael runs over to Thomas and grasps his hands. 

“Did you have a nightmare again? Would you like to talk about it?” asks Michael gently. 

Silently, Thomas pulls away from Michael’s hands and pulls him into a tight embrace. A surprised gasp escapes from Michael, but Thomas soon feels Michael’s strong arms wrap around him. 

“There, there..,” soothes Michael as he strokes Thomas’s back. “It was just a nightmare. What’s done is done.” 

A sob escapes from Thomas’s throat and he buries his face in Michael’s shoulder. His body shudders with a sob and he holds Michael tighter, breathing in his soothing scent. He never wants to let go again. As he feels Michael’s hands on his back, he lets out another sob. When was the last time Michael could have held him like this? 

“Thomas…?” calls Christopher’s velvety voice. 

Briefly, Thomas looks up to see his tall and elegant brother standing by the table. Weakly, he beckons Christopher to come forwards. Hesitantly, his brother approaches. With a soft cry, he too is pulled into the embrace. After a few moments, Christopher wraps his arms around Thomas’s back and begins to stroke him with halting motions. 

“Shall I schedule an appointment with your therapist?” murmurs Christopher.

Thomas weakly shakes his head and holds Christopher and Michael tighter. 

“‘M sorry..,” he blubbers. 

“Sorry for what?” asks Christopher in exasperation. 

“Everything..,” sobs Thomas. 

“Now, now, the feud has been over for years now...No need to dig up the past,” soothes Michael. 

“N...no..,” mumbles Thomas. 

“No what?” asks Christopher, a hint of irritation filling his tone.

“Th-the d-dolls..,” blubbers Thomas. “’M so sorry…”

A brief moment of silence fills the room as Michael and Christopher exchange confused glances. 

“Did you break some? I’m sure we can repair them..,” soothes Michael. 

Thomas continues sobbing and holding onto his brothers tightly. How could they have forgotten?! 

“I KILLED YOU ALL!!” screams Thomas as he looks at his shocked brothers. 

Quickly, Christopher puts a cool hand on Thomas’s forehead. 

“You’re showing no signs of fever...however, I do think that you had  _ quite _ a worrisome nightmare..,” murmurs the elder Arclight in worry.

Thomas holds tightly onto Christopher’s hand and holds it close to his chest. Michael and Christopher exchange helpless glances while Thomas continues to sob. 

“Michael...would you please make some tea…?” asks Christopher softly as he reassures Thomas. 

Quietly nodding, Michael pulls away from Thomas. Immediately, Thomas wraps his arms around Christopher, rocking him gently. 

“You were so ugly..,” whispers Thomas. “I hated your powdery scent and judgemental stares. Even after I did all of those things to you, you still hated me…”

Without replying, Christopher starts to stroke Thomas’s back. Thomas pulls Christopher closer and continues to sob. His brother, his poor big brother. Forced to endure all of that torture without a voice. He remembers vividly Christopher’s bloody face after he continuously slammed his face against the wall after it had become too much. All Thomas could do was pull him away, clean his wounds and hold him close, like a broken toy. Because that was what he had turned him into. His “queen.” His poor, poor “queen.”

“Hush, Thomas...it was merely a dream,” soothes Christopher as he strokes Thomas’s back. “Nothing terrible happened. I’m still here.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” blubbers Thomas. “I’m so sorry for putting you and Michael through all of that…”

“Should we cancel the tea party today?” asks Christopher in a soft voice. 

“W-what tea party?” asks Thomas as he pulls away. 

“Oh dear, it must have been quite a nightmare..,” muses Michael as he enters with the tea. 

“The one with the twins and Kaito,” reminds Christopher gently.

“O-oh n-no...please don’t cancel that,” mumbles Thomas. “I-I need to apologize to them too.”

A small smile fills Christopher’s expression, softening his angular features. He brushes back a stray lock of hair from Thomas’s face. Thomas immediately leans into Christopher’s cool hand, something he hadn’t felt in months. 

“You don’t need to apologize for anything. As I said, nothing happened,” murmurs Christopher. 

Thomas grasps Christopher’s hand. 

“C-could you please play something on the piano? I haven’t heard you play in a long time..,” mumbles Thomas.

Christopher’s eyebrow raises at the odd request. Regardless, he pulls his hand away and turns towards the hallway. 

“Anything in mind?” he asks. 

“Whatever you’d like, even your trashy pop songs,” says Thomas with a weak smile. 

A light pink fills Christopher’s cheeks. 

“Alright then.”

The brothers walk into the Arclights’ living room, where their large grand piano sits. Michael and Thomas sit side by side on the sofa while Christopher lifts the covering off of the piano. Taking a seat, Christopher opens the lid and looks down at the ivory keys. He gives his brothers a shy smile and then rests his fingers on the keys.

“Chouno Sanagi’s latest hit: Trap Card Heart,” announces Christopher quietly. 

A lively, jazzy tune begins to play and Thomas feels tears bead in his eyes. It had been such a long time since he had heard the piano played so lovingly. He buries his face in Michael’s shoulder and begins to cry again. Abruptly, Christopher stops. 

“N-no...please continue,” begs Thomas. “I-it makes me feel better. I promise.”

Pausing for a few moments, Christopher sighs and returns back to playing the song. His deep blue eyes are filled with passion as his fingers dance across the keys. A small smile tugs at his lips. The sight makes Thomas want to cry again but he fights the urge. Chris was so lovely and calm whenever he wanted to be. He holds Michael’s hand and feels his brother squeeze back as Christopher reaches the bridge. 

Softly, Thomas begins to sing along. Christopher’s smile widens and his eyes look at him lovingly. 

“Come on, sing with me!” calls Thomas softly to Michael. 

Shyly, Michael begins to sing with Thomas. As the two Arclight brothers sing, Christopher continues to play on the piano, going alongside the two siblings. In this moment of unison, Thomas smiles. Yes. Maybe it had been all just a dream. 

_ My heart is set on attack,  _

_ You’re right in my track _

_ Trap card activate!  _

_ Trap! Trap! _

_ A cage for your heart.  _

_ With an airy kiss _

_ You fall into bliss _

_ I won’t miss! _

__ Christopher finishes with a flourish, his glissando shaking the entire room. Michael claps in delight and stands up. 

“That was marvelous! After the party you  _ must  _ play for us again!” insists Michael. 

His green eyes trail to the grandfather clock and panic suddenly fills them. 

“Oh dear! We’ve only an hour left to prepare!” 

Thomas stands up abruptly. Because of him, he had held up the party’s progress. He looks down in regret. Christopher’s firm hand soon rests on his shoulder and Thomas looks into his brother’s gentle expression.

“It’s alright,” murmurs Christopher. “It’s just a gathering among friends. No worries. You can help me set up the table in the garden.” 

__ As Michael busied himself with boiling everyone’s favorite teas in the kitchen, Christopher and Thomas walked out onto the patio, where a long table awaited them. A bundle of lace cloth sits on the surface and Christopher motions for Thomas to go on the other side. As the two lay down the cloth over the long table, Thomas looks at the flowers and smiles. During those wintry months, he had missed them. 

“They smell quite lovely, don’t they?” asks Christopher. 

“Yeah..,” agrees Thomas wistfully. “In the nightmare, winter was starting and they all died.” 

His brother swipes off a few flecks of dust from the tablecloth and then goes around the table, inspecting all of the chairs.

“The cycle of life and death is inevitable,” remarks Christopher as he looks up at the beautiful blue sky. 

“Chris?” 

A flicker of distaste fills Christopher’s expression at the nickname. But quickly, it is replaced with an understanding glance. 

“Yes?”

“In my nightmare, I drugged all of you to death and then set myself on fire,” mumbles Thomas. 

Christopher shakes his head. 

“Have you been watching horror movies late at night again?” he asks with furrowed brows. 

“Er…” 

“Thomas. You know that isn’t good for you,” chides Christopher. 

He lets out a defeated sigh and turns back towards their mansion. 

“Come, let us set up the pastries.” 

* * *

Once the table was set and the tea was ready, the brothers stood back and admired their handiwork. The fine lace tablecloth softly fluttered in the cool breeze. Pastries and cakes lined the table, each one lovingly crafted. Thomas smiles when he sees Michael’s bitter fruit pastries off to one side. 

_ Tinkletling... _ softly calls their windchimes. A bird flies overhead, singing a peaceful song. 

“I feel almost bad that we must eat these,” admits Michael with a chuckle. 

“In the end, it all comes out the same,” chuckles Thomas. 

Christopher elbows Thomas in the ribs and shakes his head at the base remark.

“How old are you again?” he asks in exasperation. 

“Old enough,” replies Thomas cheekily.

His brother flicks him on the shoulder. Dusting off his clothes, Christopher heads back into their home. 

“The guests should be here any minute,” he muses. 

Michael and Thomas soon follow Chris into the anteroom, waiting for their guests. 

_ Rap rap.  _

Perking up, Thomas answers the door. 

“Ryoga. Rio. Kaito,” he says awkwardly. 

“Good to see you,” greets Rio. 

“Why the surprised face?” asks Ryoga, making his way through the door frame. 

Christopher quickly makes his way to the door, greeting Kaito. Briefly, the two squeeze hands. As everyone makes their way into the garden, conversation fills the halls. 

“Have your studies in law been difficult?” asks Michael.

Rio gives a defeated headshake. 

“Ethics this, ethics that. It’s fascinating, truly, but sometimes a bit too much,” she replies. 

Her expression quickly regains its confidence though. 

“But it definitely won’t be the hardest thing I’ll be dealing with.”

“That’s good to hear.” 

“Any plans to go to the Arctic lab anytime soon?” asks Christopher to Kaito. 

A smirk fills Kaito’s face. 

“Thought you’d never ask.” 

Thomas looks at Ryoga from his side. The same confident gait. The same moody expression. He’s almost tempted to tease him until he remembers the things he did. Ryoga turns to see Thomas’s hesitant expression and frowns. 

“What?”

“N-nothing,” mumbles Thomas. 

_ It was just a nightmare though.  _ Ryoga raises a finely plucked eyebrow. 

“You sure seem...off today,” he remarks. After a few moments of contemplation, his lips curve into a smug smile. “Where did your fanservice go? Did touring take it all away?”

Hearing Ryoga’s long missed goading causes a flame to spark in the pit of Thomas’s stomach. He returns the smile. 

“What? Scared that I wouldn’t have saved enough fanservice for you?” he asks teasingly. 

A flicker of relief fills Ryoga’s expression and he walks ahead of Thomas and into the garden. 

“No. I was just worried that you were thinking of retiring.” 

“And how could that even happen?” asks Thomas incredulously as he pulls out a seat for himself. 

As everyone takes a seat, Christopher clears his throat to make an announcement. The conversation soon dies down and all attention turns to the elegant man. 

“As you are aware, we are here today in order to congratulate Thomas on the completion of his tour. But we must also not forget that we are also celebrating the arrival of summer too. I want to thank all of you for attending and please, eat as much as you can. This is, after all, a celebration,” declares Christopher, pride filling his expression. 

Polite applause fills the table and Thomas basks in the attention with a smirk. 

“Cool. Where’s the champagne?” asks Thomas sarcastically.

A few attendees laugh, including Christopher. Soon, the conversation resumes and the tea party begins. Christoper and Kaito share meaningful glances and hushed conversation. Michael and Rio begin a small philosophical conversation with Ryoga occasionally chiming in. The initial unease Thomas had felt in the morning ebbs away and he can feel a smile filling his handsome features. He pours himself a cup of tea and stirs in a spoonful of sugar and honey. Taking a sip, he feels his shoulders relax in contentment. 

Looking at the peaceful scene, he feels himself lean back. Ah. The top of the teapot had a small crack. He would need to tell Michael about that afterwards. Taking a cream puff from the tray, Thomas darts his tongue out to lick the cream off of the top. He notices Ryoga staring at him and feels heat rise to his cheeks. 

“Ch-childhood habit,” he admits. 

Ryoga smirks. 

“I could tell.” 

Rio joins in and smirks, just like Ryoga. 

“Ryoga still picks peppers out of his food. And he can’t handle spicy things either,” says Rio. 

Her brother blushes and he turns away. Giving the two a smile, Thomas finishes up the cream puff and takes another pastry from the table. Oh? His attention turns to Kaito, whose plate and teacup were still empty. The Numbers Hunter looks at Christopher intently, deeply absorbed into the conversation. He notices Thomas staring and turns away from his ex-mentor. 

“Haruto really liked the caramels from Buenos Aires,” says Kaito calmly. “He wanted to say thank you.”

“And you?” teases Christopher, attention still focused on Kaito. “What are you supposed to say?”

Kaito turns away from Thomas in a huff. 

“You know that I don’t say ‘thank you’ as a personal policy of mine,” he says. 

“That’s alright. I can tell that you said thank you from your heart,” replies Thomas with a laugh. 

Kaito’s cheeks turn a rosy hue. 

“Now take some tea before it gets cold,” invites Thomas. 

“Can’t,” mutters Kaito gruffly. 

Surprise fills Thomas’s expression. 

“Why?” 

The rosy hue on Kaito’s cheeks turn a darker hue. Thomas turns to his elder brother for answers and sees that a knowing smile has appeared on his face. Tentatively, Thomas takes a sip of his tea. Turning around to scan everyone else’s reactions, he is met with similar knowing glances and exasperated head shakes. What was going on? What did everyone else know that he didn’t? 

“Do you want to tell my poor clueless brother?” prompts Christopher with an amused expression. 

“...It can’t be helped anyways,” sighs Kaito. 

He steps away from the table and lifts up his shirt, revealing a tightly laced blue and black striped corset. A lock in the shape of a heart shimmers at the bottom. Thomas’s breath catches in his throat and he nearly drops the teacup in his hand. In the nightmare, he had…

Like a well recited verse, Kaito drones out, “It’s for my master. He said he wanted me to have a slim, lovely waist befitting that of the perfect wife.” 

Prickles and nausea rise up Thomas’s back. His vision swims and the pastries threaten to make their way back up his throat. 

“I get three cups of milk a day and a few tiny sandwiches. If I behave, I might get some caramel,” continues the blond.

At those words, Thomas pushes back his seat. All eyes turn to him in surprise. Kaito pulls down his shirt and looks at him in mild confusion.

“No need to have such a violent reaction,” calls Rio quietly. “We all belong to the master here. Even you.” 

One of her eyes is duller than the other’s. Thomas swallows hard and looks down at Ryoga. Like Rio, one of his eyes appears clouded and lifeless.

“The master can do as he pleases here. Truly, it’s nothing to worry about. He would never truly hurt us,” reassures Michael. 

Hesitantly, Thomas turns to look at his younger brother, waves of nausea attacking his senses. 

_ Click clack. Click clack.  _ Looking down at the table, Thomas sees Michael’s legs swing back and forth, the  _ click clacking  _ noise following his motions. Thomas nearly lets out a scream as he feels cold, porcelain hands on his shoulders. Turning around, he’s looking up at his brother, cold and pale in the sunlight.  _ No, no, no… _

“Take a seat, Thomas. I know that it has been quite a trying day for you, but we have guests here,” chides Christopher. 

Numbly, he is guided back to his seat. Christopher pours him some tea and places the cup in front of him. 

“Here. Saffron tea. Your favorite.”

Thomas’s body trembles in fear and he keeps his head down. What was happening…? He feels his breathing accelerate and he grips the lace tablecloth with one hand. 

“We love you very much..,” murmurs Christopher as he returns to his seat. “All of your faults included.” 

Unlike Christopher from this morning, this Christopher moves with measured and stiff motions. The smell of the saffron tea further nauseates Thomas and he turns away from the tea. Looking at the twins, he stifled a scream when he saw that Rio’s left and Ryoga’s right arms were jointed and stiff. Looking at Kaito’s seat and realizing that it is empty, a whimper escapes from Thomas’s throat. Memories of bloodstained teeth and one single word repeated over and over again fill his mind. 

“Truly, you shouldn’t fret..,” soothes Michael. “Master taught us to be nice to each other.” 

_ Click. Clack. Click. Clack.  _ Thomas bites his lips in an attempt to not scream. So this was what being dead was like. Enduring the faces of his victims for the rest of eternity.  _ Sccrcch... _ Ryoga’s chair pulls back and almost hypnotically, he walks into the mansion. Thomas looks down at the wavering wooden floor, his pulse roaring in his ears. They were dead. They were all dead. Vertigo fills his head and he almost falls off of his seat until his hand flies out and grasps the armrest. 

“Did you miss me, honeeyy..?” calls a disgustingly chipper voice. 

He knows who that voice belongs to and he keeps his head down. Squeezing his eyes shut, he begins a small prayer. An amused chuckle comes from Christopher and Thomas bites his lips.

“Why are you praying at a time like this, Thomas? Look at Mrs. Arclight. Isn’t she lovely?” asks his brother. 

_ Clip. Clip. Clip.  _ The sound of stilettos against the wood flooring sends chills up Thomas’s back. A small voice tells him to run. Another voice tells him to look up. One other voice tells him to remain as he is. 

“Playing hard to get, are we..?” teases Mrs. Arclight, Kaito’s soft and lulling voice distorted into a high and breathy whisper. 

Thomas’s chin trembles. Letting out a scream when he feels a plastic hand on his shoulder, he jumps away and lands onto the floor. Involuntarily, he looks up at Kaito and his eyes widen in shock. Blonde, wavy locks and curled bangs bounce up and down with every movement. A blue, polkadotted dress hugs a curvaceous form, nothing like Kaito’s original thin body. The corset from before is still circled around the waist but is partially obscured by the doll’s large chest. Heat fills Thomas’s face and he continues to look at the doll, the deep blue sky and bright sun still shining behind her. 

Had his bitter hatred for Kaito not blurred his artistic vision, would this have been what Kaito looked like? He doesn’t know if this would be better or worse for Kaito, who had faced the most abuse. 

“You wanted me to be like this. And now you’re running away?” asks Mrs. Arclight, a pout playing on her plush red lips. “Men are so mercurial…”

“E-er…”

Awkwardly, Thomas stands up. Looking down at his hand, he sees the two rings on his ring finger. 

“S...sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Let’s get you back in your seat so we can continue the tea party you interrupted,” sighs Mrs. Arclight as she steers Thomas back into his seat. 

Her grip is too tight on his shoulders. When he tries to shake her off, the grip doesn’t budge. 

“I...I want to get out of here,” mumbles Thomas. 

“Why?” asks a petulant voice. 

“R-Ryoga?” stammers Thomas. 

In the doorway, Lola stands, dressed in a skimpy schoolgirl uniform, hair tied into twintails. Her articulated joints click with each movement he makes. Struggling with Mrs. Arclight’s grip, Thomas’s hands grasp for something close. 

“P-please…! I’m sorry!” shouts Thomas. “I wasn’t myself!” 

The sex doll slowly approaches, cupping Thomas’s face in her hands. Her lips part and she kisses Thomas on the lips, her tongue dry and rubbery. The smell of silicone overpowers Thomas’s senses and the wave of nausea threatens to return the pastries.

“Seeeee…? That wasn’t so bad..,” purrs Mrs. Arclight as she pulls Thomas closer, her pillowy chest rubbing uncomfortably against his back. 

“He’s still tense,” pouts Lola. “Maybe my sister can help him.” 

Pulling away, Lola walks over to Rio’s seat. She speaks in a soft voice and gently guides the body towards Thomas. A scream rips through Thomas’s throat when he sees the empty magenta eyes again, glimmering in the sunlight. With one hand around her sister’s waist and the other hand on her forearm, Lola guides the unseeing marionette towards Thomas. His struggling proves futile, Mrs. Arclight’s iron grip on his shoulder unrelenting. 

“Oh  _ honey _ , you made me undergo all of those awful procedures...Can’t you just stay still for a little bit..?” pleads Mrs. Arclight. 

“P-please…! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” shouts Thomas helplessly as he feels the marionette’s cold hand on his cheek. “P-please…! Anyone but her!”

He remembers his journey down the halls, her dead body slung over his shoulders. The memory of her swinging hand that had touched him resurfaces and he whimpers when he sees her pull away from Ryoga. Her empty glass eyes continue to look at him without emotion. She raises her other hand and strokes the scar down Thomas’s face. 

“What is there to be afraid of..?” asks the marionette breathily. “You made me like this. And you’re so handsome yourself…”

Thomas feels his lips tremble and his knees grow weak. The springs in her limbs make creaking noises as she runs her hands down his face. 

“Mm...yes...A handsome face indeed..,” muses the blind marionette. 

Her painted lips curve into a facsimile of a smile and she turns to Lola. 

“We love you so much..,” she says to Thomas as she is led back to her seat. 

Looking down at the floor in fear, Thomas bites his lip.  _ Fliff fliff.  _ The sound of slippers on wood brings shivers down Thomas’s spine. He doesn’t want to look up. Not when…

“My subjects have been missing their master..,” says the queen softly. “Won’t you return to us?” 

“Chris...p-please..,” stammers Thomas. “Don’t do this to me.” 

Laughter, like tinkling bells, follows. Thomas can only think of porcelain shards crashing onto a tile floor. 

“What am I doing that has displeased you so…?” asks the hollow voice. 

It lacked emotion and drive, unlike Chris, who always had a sense of gravitas in his voice. 

“S...stop..,” begs Thomas. 

“I had no choice,” says the queen softly. “Is not a master supposed to embrace his creations?”

Thomas’s lips tremble. He was a monster. Not an artist. Cold, frigid, bone-chilling hands caress Thomas’s face and angles it up. Thomas shifts back, yet can move no further than that due to Mrs. Arclight’s grip.  _ Terrifyingly beautiful.  _ Snow white porcelain contrasts with bright red lips and rosy cheeks. Not a single hair from the regal pouf was out of place. And he hates it. He hates it so much. Tears fill his eyes, only to be brushed away by the cold porcelain hands. 

“D-don’t touch me,” whispers Thomas. 

“As you wish.”

Emotionlessly, the queen pulls away, only to be replaced by a doll with wide green eyes and lovely pink and brown curls. Rose moved with purpose, greeting Thomas with a smile. 

“We love you so much and want nothing but your happiness,” says the doll softly as she kisses his cheek. 

His twisted dream of having an adoring group of dolls became a disgusting reality. Turning away from Rose, Thomas struggles against Mrs. Arclight one more time. 

“Let go!” he shouts, his vision swimming and his pulse roaring through his ears. 

Much to his surprise, the hands release and he falls onto the floor. His hands fly out to catch him and he turns around. He screams when he sees that a part of Mrs. Arclight’s heavily made up face was dripping onto the floor, revealing bloodshot eyes and a hint of a forced smile. 

“Oh, honey...what’s wrong…?” asks Mrs. Arclight as more of her face drips off. 

“K-Kaito! I’m sorry!” gasps Thomas as Mrs. Arclight kneels down. “I’m sorry I killed you! I’m sorry you never got to see your brother again!”

“Water under the bridge, dear..,” drawls Mrs. Arclight as the rest of her face sloughs and melts onto the floor.

Plastic hands hold his chest down and he is forced to look at the face he had made, with its permanent bloody smile and disgustingly plump cheeks. The voluptuous body is gone, replaced by a scrawny and malnourished figure. The clicking of heels follow and Thomas feels a heavy foot on his chest. Lola looks down at him with a smile.

“She’s madder at you than I am,” she says with eyes that did not match the mirth of the smile. 

“Wh—Hnnghh!”

A pair of leaden hands wrap around Thomas’s neck. Face to face with the grimacing marionette, Thomas chokes out a weak cry.  _ Crick. Crack.  _ He feels the floorboards shift underneath his body and squeezes his eyes shut. The sound of soft slippers clicking against the floor causes Thomas to stiffen. 

“As I said. The cycle of life and death is inevitable..,” murmurs the queen as she gives Mrs. Arclight a dagger. 

“Die…,” says Mrs. Arclight as she plunges the knife into Thomas’s chest. 

The marionette releases her grip from Thomas’s throat and blindly feels around for the dagger. When her fingers wrap around the hilt, she immediately runs it down Thomas’s chest. Now free to scream, Thomas does exactly that. Lola then takes the knife from her sister and begins cutting away at Thomas’s organs. 

“Oops...Guess we didn’t need that!” laughs Lola as she throws out a piece of Thomas’s liver. “Or this!”

Another chunk of organ is roughly yanked from his body. Thomas feels Lola’s hand reach under his ribcage, squishing and crushing the tissue. He lets out a scream that is interrupted as Lola digs her sharp nails into his lungs. 

“You’re dead so you don’t need to breathe either..,” drawls Lola as she squishes the lung tissue in her hand. “It’s so fun, feeling the air bubbles pop...Just like bubble wrap…”

Pulling away from Thomas with bloody hands, Lola looks up to Rose and smiles sweetly. 

“It’s your turn, Rosie- _ chan _ …” 

Silently, Rose kneels and rests her plastic hand on Thomas’s heart. Unable to make a noise as the marionette and Mrs. Arclight crushed his windpipe, Thomas closes his eyes and thrashes in pain as Rose yanks his heart out from his body. 

“Oh dear, it’s quite heavy,” remarks Rose as she rests it on the floor. 

_ Crick crack.  _ As Rose raises her foot to crush the heart, Thomas can hear the floor give away.  _ Plishttt... _ squelches his heart as it was stomped down with Rose’s foot. As they all fall into a dark abyss, Thomas can distantly hear Michael’s voice. 

“And now, the trial begins.”

Thomas's original vision for Mrs. Arclight is [here](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1GYnM82lnAtg8emBAqT8CyKIzKs2LyeCY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story about lungs. They feel like miniature bubble wrap. Filled with tiny air bubbles. Pop pop pop. 
> 
> (Don't worry, this was from a histology internship. Nothing nefarious going on.)


	13. Michael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, has it been that long since I last updated?

He opens his eyes to see a vaulted ceiling with sunlight shining down from the slanted skylights. In the sunlight, the chandeliers from the ceiling glimmer blindingly. Light. Nothing but light. Had he made it…? Jolting up, he looks around to see historical artifacts. Knight armor, tapestries, medieval weapons and torture devices are placed around the room in orderly fashion, the items shining like new. Even from behind the glass cases, he can tell that the artifacts were well taken care of. Swallowing hard, he stands up and looks down at the marble floors, polished to a flawless sheen. His reflection stares back at him uneasily, the memory of being torn apart still fresh in his mind. This place was filled with light that seemed to judge him for every move he made.

_ Tick. Tack. Click clack.  _ The sound of boots against the floor causes Thomas to stiffen. Turning towards the sound, he is met with Michael’s gentle expression. Immediately, Thomas backs away, heart hammering in his chest. 

“No, no, please..,” begs Thomas. “I’m sorry. I truly am. Please don’t hurt me…You’ve already done enough. I understand.” 

His words tumble out of him like a waterfall, unable to be stopped. Yet Michael continues to approach him, quietly listening to every single plea of his and nodding. Like he had always done. Unlike Christopher, who interrupted him whenever he made a point that didn’t sit well with him, Michael had always patiently waited for Thomas to finish. When Thomas finally manages to get his breathing in control, his shaky legs force him against a wall and he slides down, looking up at Michael in fear. Calm, gentle green eyes continue to look at him, not a single hint of malice seen. Slowly, Michael kneels down, meeting Thomas’s eyes. 

Offering his hand to Thomas, a smile fills Michael’s face when Thomas shakily takes his hand.

“I should be angry at you, shouldn’t I?” murmurs Michael softly. 

Thomas vigorously nods, feeling the tears brim in his eyes. 

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes. 

Michael shakes his head and helps Thomas stand. 

“For some reason, I can’t find it in myself to be angry,” sighs Michael.

He doesn’t continue. In the silence, the brothers look at each other, eye-to-eye. Come to think of it, if Michael had lived a few more years, he would have grown to be taller than Thomas. The thought makes Thomas’ lips tremble. All of that potential. Lost. Michael makes a few shushing noises, holding Thomas close and running his hand down Thomas’s back, just like he had done for Michael when they were abandoned at the orphanage. 

“There’s nothing either of us can do now. We’re both dead,” soothes Michael. 

Thomas holds Michael closer, afraid of letting go and looking into his face.  _ Dead.  _ The finality of it all makes Thomas’s shoulders sag and he once again sinks down to the floor. No more performances. No more traveling. No more chances of being able to meet their father again. No more fall, winter, spring or summer. Just the cold kiss of death. Seeing despair fill Thomas’s face, Michael sighs and sits down next to him. He forces a smile. 

“No more finals for me,” he says with forced joviality. 

“Please don’t make those jokes for my sake. You’ve already done enough for me,” begs Thomas. 

His brother’s smile fades and the two sit in silence for a few moments. Dust motes dance about in the sunbeams. It was so fitting, for Michael’s afterlife to be a museum. Along with serving the people (like Michael, who had always put others above himself), everything was organized according to the time period and the usage. A place for everything, befitting Michael’s methodical and careful nature. He wonders where he belongs now in Michael’s heart now, after all he’s done. Did he still have a place, or was he placed down the garbage chute of spurned memories?

That’s how it was always like. He had always pushed away those closest to him. Michael pulls himself closer to Thomas’ side and looks out at the displays. 

“The others weren’t as lucky as me,” murmurs Michael. “Some were fully trapped in their doll bodies.” 

Thomas turns to Michael in surprise. Without asking, Michael lifts up his pant leg to reveal a ball jointed leg. His expression reveals nothing as he looks down at the plastic. 

“Even if I was the one that died with the least amount of sins, I still received some sort of punishment.”

Swallowing hard, Thomas forces himself to look at the leg. This was his fault. 

“Who had the most sins?” he asks after a few moments. 

“The twins, obviously. They had two lifetimes’ worth of sins on their backs,” replies Michael, pulling the pant leg back down. “Turning into Barians prevented them from atoning in their first lives.” 

There’s a pause as Michael stuffs the pant leg back into his boot. Prickles creep up Thomas’s spine. Maybe, had they lived, the twins would have had time to do more good deeds to cancel out their sins. 

Dust motes continue to dance in the sunbeams and if Thomas squints, he can see some cobwebs fluttering with the air conditioning. The room smells of old paper, a staleness that pressed upon Thomas’s chest.

“For all the souls Kaito stole, he had the heaviest punishment...Then came brother Christopher,” murmurs Michael. “If not for the fact that the twins shared one soul and thus one punishment, their bodies could have been as bad as Kaito’s.” 

A cold sweat fills Thomas’s body when he remembers Kaito’s contorted face.

“Oh, God,” utters Thomas. “Will I be forced to face him?” 

“You can’t atone if you don’t face your sins,” replies Michael simply.

He shrugs and then stands up, only to have Thomas grab his arm. Feeling warm flesh instead of lukewarm plastic makes relief wash over Thomas’s back. 

“What if I don’t want to atone?” asks Thomas breathily. “What if I just stay with you forever?” 

A glint fills Michael’s eyes as he turns back to look at his brother.

“You see, that was your problem. You were never able to move on,” he reprimands. 

Thomas’s grip weakens and he slumps back to the floor, staring at Michael. The sun has been obscured by clouds, the museum taking on a more decrepit light. His brother looks at the changes without blinking an eye, all too familiar with his afterlife. He begins to walk away from Thomas, crossing under the dusty cords and touching the artifacts. Hesitatingly, Thomas stands and looks around. In the silence, he can hear Michael’s footsteps mixed with the creaking of his ball jointed leg. 

Picking up a sword, Michael lovingly runs his finger down the silver blade. 

“It was insult to injury, burning down my collection with the rest of our house,” says Michael in a loud voice. “I wanted these to be passed down for generations.” 

A lump forms in Thomas’s throat and he finds himself rooted to the floor, paralyzed.  _ Clank.  _ Michael sets his sword down and turns around to face Thomas, tears in his eyes. Slowly, he walks towards his brother. They look into each other’s eyes for a few moments, tears still flowing down Michael’s face. At that moment, his brother looked both young and old at the same time. Looking at his brother, Thomas can almost see what could have been. 

Before he can though, Michael pushes Thomas onto the floor, the coldness of the marble seeping up Thomas’s skin. 

“I loved you, Thomas! Was that not enough for you?! Did you also have to mutilate and rape me?!” sobs Michael angrily. “I was supposed to go to South America for an internship a month after you mutilated me! I should have graduated and had a career as a professor! I could have had a wedding, a big and beautiful wedding, just like father’s! You could have had nephews, nieces and great grand nephews and nieces! I should have died in my bed or at my desk as a decrepit, mouldy old man, not at 19, WHEN I HAD A WHOLE BLOODY FUTURE AHEAD OF ME!”

Michael screams his voice hoarse at the final sentence. He buries his face in his hands and loudly sobs. Tears brim in Thomas’s eyes, yet he continues to stare at his brother, waiting for him to finish. At this point, all of his apologies sounded hollow. But what else could he have done? Death was final. Death meant no more opportunities. 

Night had arrived at the museum, rain heavily pouring and pounding against the walls. A few sparse lights hung from the room, creating eerie silhouettes from some of the artifacts. Michael’s cries echo across the halls, making it seem as if there was more than one Michael crying. But perhaps that was the truth. All of the Michaels that never had the chance to live could have been crying their hearts out at their wasted potential. It was the perfect sound for an abandoned museum at night. 

Sobs wrack Michael’s body as he continues to cry. The torrent of rain relentlessly continues in turn. As he fights for air, he shakily pulls away his hands from his face and looks at Thomas. His eyes are swollen from crying and his cheeks are hollow, so much like the numerous times he had seen Michael as his doll. It breaks Thomas’s heart in two.

“Get out of here,” hisses Michael. “The others will deal with you.” 

A flash of lightning illuminates the room for a brief moment. In the tense moment before the answering thunder, Thomas looks into Michael’s eyes. Not a single trace of anger filled those eyes. Just two, dark pools of sorrow and anguish. He could almost sink into them. Before he can fully react, a deafening roar shakes him to his core and the floor falls away into inky blackness once again. The last thing he sees is his brother’s tear filled face.

It would have been better if Michael was angry and hated him. Thomas knew those emotions well, like an old abusive friend that he couldn’t leave. Yet all his brother felt towards him was grief and sorrow. And that cut him deeper than any blade in that museum. 


	14. Christopher and Kaito

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, everyone.

He can see nothing. He can hear nothing. The cold air seeps through his skin and the metal floor makes a scratching noise with every move he makes. Thomas blindly feels around on all fours, his breath tightening in his chest. The others? Could they be here, lurking, waiting for him? _Thunk._ He bumps into a wooden leg and blindly feels his way up the table. When he feels the outline of something made of glass, his fingers wrap around the object. His fingers brush across buttons and a switch. Fumbling around, he flicks the switch and gasps when a dim light arises from the lantern. 

It’s a tiny bulb, about half the size of his pinky. Looking down at the buttons, he growls when there are no labels denoting the function of the button. He tries each one but they only cause the bulb to flicker. Deciding not to risk losing his measly source of light, Thomas ceases pressing the buttons and picks up the small lantern. Moving it in an arc, he can barely see his surroundings. The small light only illuminates a small patch of the room, but he can see that the walls are made of metal. 

Thomas closes his eyes and feels for the direction of the air. _Left._ Angling his lantern in that direction, he follows the cold air. A low humming is heard throughout his walk, accompanied by his footsteps on the frigid metal floor. He can barely see ahead of him, but he supposes that it’s better than blindly crawling around on all fours. Entering a narrow hallway, he holds his lantern closer to himself, afraid of bumping the precious light source into something. The metal walls are bereft of anything and the coldness intensifies. 

Distantly, he hears the humming joined by...another sound. Supposedly human in nature, its distance from him had distorted the sounds into an almost imperceptible echo. He swallows hard and looks back into the black abyss that he had left. Was the sound even human? Should he return and wait in that small room, like an animal? What would he even encounter? Standing in the cramped, cold hall, he feels himself take a step forward. Taking in a deep breath of the stale, metallic air, he carries on. If he met whatever roamed these halls first, perhaps he could have an advantage. 

_Tmp tmp tmp._

The humming and distant echoes continue to whisper to him. 

Was it better to lie in wait of the inevitable lion or to follow it back to its lair and slay it? His footsteps and the humming are his only answer. The hall stretches out before him, inky blackness ahead and behind. With every single feature of the hall being identical sheets of hammered metal, it was impossible to tell if he was heading in the correct direction. He supposes he is, though. He hasn’t spun around in a circle yet. Or has he? 

_Tmp tamp tmp tamp._

The uneasy thoughts swirl around his mind, competing with his alertness. 

He puts his hand on the glass for some warmth but is disappointed to find that the tiny bulb provides no comfort. The humming intensifies when he reaches what he supposes is the midsection of the hallway, the walls widening out to a staircase on one side and the hallway continuing on the other. Standing before the staircase, he peeks down at the continued hallway. It stretches out as far as his light could shine. And then a black abyss. Distantly, he thinks he hears something scratching around. Looking up at the metal stairs, he sees a floor at the top. He angles his ear up the staircase and hears nothing. Without another moment of hesitation, he begins his ascent.

_Tmp. Tamp. Tmp. Tamp. Tmp. Tam. Fwsh._

…

…

He’s surprised to hear the eventual silencing of his footsteps. Looking down at his feet, he finds that the floors are now carpeted instead of metal. He takes in a deep breath and continues on. When he makes it to the new floor, the humming has become a dull noise at the bottom of the stairs and the cold air has lessened. The wall by him is wallpapered in flowers and a blurry painting hangs. He supposes that this was more welcoming than the metal walls. 

Continuing down the hall, he sees more blurry paintings and photographs covering the increasingly decrepit wallpaper. Mold creeps up the edges of the peeling paper and the cold air lessens the more he continues this way. It’s replaced by a woody and slightly suffocating atmosphere, even worse than Michael’s museum. He holds the lantern close to one of the photographs and freezes. 

The bodies were eerily familiar but the faces were blurred out by what appeared to be paint. Him, Michael, Chris and their shrunken father, all together at the summer festival. A chill runs up Thomas’s back. _Chris._ This must have been his brother’s afterlife. Who else would it have been? He swallows hard. Looking back down at the hall, he sees nothing but a wall of pitch black darkness. Something tells him that his tiny lantern would do nothing in that haze. 

Forcing himself to continue down the long hall, he realizes that the deafening silence was what made him fear this place the most. Their mansion had always been filled with sound. From the barking of the dog to his father’s cartoons to the hustle and bustle of the staff, there was always a sign that the Arclight mansion was alive. But not now. And not for the last few months, when he had silenced his brothers. 

He then realizes that he hates the silence. He wants to hear sound. He wants to hear Christopher on the piano, banging out Sanagi’s tunes. He wants to hear Michael’s sweet singing. His father’s laughter. Even the sound of the timbers creaking at night. Yet there is nothing, not even the sound of his footsteps amidst the plush and dust filled carpet. 

Reaching a wall, he turns and walks into a darker and narrower hallway. The ever present smell of mold seems to fade away, replaced with another lighter smell. He clears his throat and rubs his eyes, forcing his way down the musty hall. Looking back, he notes that the black haze behind him has increased. He could not go back. Keeping close to the walls, he continues amidst the deafening silence. It’s strange, though. Despite all of the secret passages he has discovered, he’s never found a passage like this. The smallest passageway could still fit two people astride. 

_Fsshnk._

_Sound._ With his eyes intently focused on the dim bulb, he walks into a wall of lace and silk. The damp smell of the mold has completely faded away now, turning into a dreaded and familiar powdery scent. 

_Oh God._ With his throat threatening to close up and his heart hammering in his chest, he can do nothing as cold porcelain fingers wrap around the hand that holds the lantern. The artificial hand roughly guides the lantern to a porcelain face with deep blue eyes and pinched red lips. Light blue and lavender curls frame the angular face, eerily illuminating the smooth face in the dim light. The porcelain features rapidly contort into anger, causing nausea to fill Thomas’s chest. _Porcelain should never move like that._

“ _You did this to me,_ ” hisses Christopher in an echoey voice. 

At a loss for words, Thomas can only continue to stare at his brother’s altered form. Everything, from his limbs to his head, was made of porcelain. His eyebrows and lips were painted on. Two light pink circles on his cheeks were meant to be cheery circles of rouge. Unlike the rest of his limbs that were flesh colored, his face was pure white, eventually fading back into his skin color at his neck. _Just like the layers and layers of powder he had dusted on Christopher’s face every morning._ Pearls, feathers, flowers and lace are neatly arranged in Christopher’s hair that was brushed back and gathered into a pouf. Not a single hair was out of place. Its sheer perfection tightens Thomas’s throat. It must have been a wig.

And his dress. It draped against his body to perfection. In the dim light, the sky blue colors dully shone. Eschelles lined the front of his stomacher, centered by large diamonds. Lace spilled from his sleeves, rustling with his every movement. His skirt parted to reveal a dark blue underskirt decorated with flowers and pearls. Jewelry wrapped around his brother’s thin wrists and neck, sparkling in the dim light. Thomas could almost cry in horror and admiration at the sight. Chris was perfect. Just like he always was. Why did he have to look so beautiful? He hates his brother’s doll-like perfection so damn much. 

A grimace rips Christopher’s face in half as he tears the lantern away from Thomas’s hand and throws it to the floor. For a moment, the lightbulb flickers and then dies, leaving the two in darkness. Thomas holds his breath, trying to avoid the sickening powdery smell. With every move his brother made, he could hear the hollow scratching sound of porcelain alongside the rustling of silk. Strong hands wrap around Thomas’ throat, their coldness seeping into his skin. _You’re dead, you’re dead, but why do you still wish to breathe?_ asks a voice in his head as he’s slammed against a wall. 

An eerie glow begins to fill Christopher’s features, the light pale and sick. It rises from below his porcelain skin, illuminating his face. _Crick._ Thomas’ fearful eyes widen when he sees a crack creeping up Christopher’s cheek. _Crick._ A tiny shard of porcelain falls from his face. Immediately, he pulls away and his hand flies to his cheek in fear. _Clink._ Sunlight fills the room and Thomas finds himself in a hall of mirrors, the sun brightly shining through the large windows and reflecting off the tiled floor.

“No, no, please..,” whispers Christopher, cradling his cheek and looking away. 

Yet wherever he looks, he is met by a mirror detailing the crack in his otherwise perfect face. Thomas looks after his brother, unsure of what to do. Christopher’s eyes turn to Thomas in the mirror and narrow. 

“Are you happy?” asks his brother bitterly. “I’m the bloody doll queen forever now.”

“I...I’m sorry,” whispers Thomas as he sees Christopher reach into the slits at the side of his dress. 

One porcelain hand takes out a brush and the other hand takes out a bottle of sealant. Frantically, Christopher unscrews the cap and begins brushing the sealant over the crack on his cheek. Once he finishes, he puts the sealant back into his pocket and takes out a bottle of paint. In the same frantic fashion, he looks into another mirror and paints over the crack. Wiping off the brush, he cleans it in a nearby basin of water and leaves it out to dry. He turns back to Thomas, a hint of frenzy still in his eyes. 

“Do you see what you did to me? All of this anger and stress that you caused me?” he hisses.

Thomas swallows hard as he’s reminded of his childhood. Despite his elegant looks, Christopher had always had a vindictive streak. Even after they were reunited, he would blame Thomas for Tron’s supposed worries through condescending glares or blatant accusations. And Thomas would never be able to say anything, for he was the younger brother. And as their governess had always said, the elder brother was always justified. 

In this instance though, he knows that Christopher is correct. In the sunlight, Christopher’s porcelain face appears less perfect. Painted over cracks shine in the light, creating a spiderweb of crisscrosses over his brother’s face. He briefly looks down at his brother’s hand and sees the same myriad of painted-over cracks. And yet, he was still so beautiful. 

Thomas bites his lip and looks at his brother in the eyes. His heart wrenches when he sees his brother’s blue irises glimmering with a wet light. _The only human part left._

“Then punish me. Take your revenge,” invites Thomas, watching as a spidery set of cracks made their way up Christopher’s neck. 

The sound of porcelain cracking fills the silence. Christopher’s hand flies to his neck and he looks at himself in the mirror, grimacing at his reflection. _Crick crick crick crick._ The cracks continue their way up Christopher’s face and Thomas’s eyes slightly widen when he sees a flash of pale flesh underneath. Mistaking his brother’s expression for disgust, Christopher’s hand moves to his cheek once more. 

“Do I disgust you?” he growls, turning away from Thomas. 

His eyes dart to the closest mirror, drinking in his own reflection. 

“It’s all your fault that I’m like this. And if everything cracks away, I’ll die. I know it.” 

_But they were already dead._ Thomas continues to remain silent, looking at his brother warily. His brother reaches into his panniers again, pulling out his sealant and paint. As his brother frantically tries to repair himself, a lump forms in Thomas’ throat. He had seen this kind of behavior before. 

Tron had recently admonished him for the failure of the Fallguys trio, right in front of his brothers. Christopher’s expression remained rigid as he bowed his head in apology, promising that the next time—“there would be no next time,” murmured Tron quietly—he would not fail. With his head held high, he walked off. Moments later, Thomas silently followed him and was witness to his brother’s breakdown through the crack of the door. 

In the confines of his own room, Christopher had frantically brushed out his long locks to perfection, his ragged breathing and counting filling his quiet room. With shaky hands, he then proceeded to redo his makeup, banging on the vanity in anguish when the eyeliner pencil’s tip broke.   
  


“Please...stop,” utters Thomas. 

Christopher clenches the brush in his hand. 

“What would you rather me do? Rot?” he hisses as he continues haphazardly fixing his cracks. 

_It’s his fault._ He had only exacerbated his brother’s silent obsession with beauty by crowning him the queen of his dolls. The finest silks. The finest pearls. The finest limbs. He had prized the queen only for her beauty, feeding Christopher’s misguided thirst for validation. Despite being the most dedicated to their cause, everyone knew that Michael was the favorite. Even before the incident, their father had favored Michael above the rest. And before she passed, their mother had favored Thomas. Christopher had been left alone with his books and stars. At parties where they were introduced, passing comments from guests always pertained to his looks. Never his scientific accomplishments. 

He supposes that was one of the reasons why his brother wished to study the sciences. To be known for more than just a pretty face. And he had trampled all over those aspirations. 

Forcing himself to approach Christopher, he puts a hand on his arm. Christopher elbows him away and looks down at him with contempt. Fresh cracks appear on his face and he grits his teeth. 

“Is killing me once not enough for you?” he snaps. “Do you still want to make me suffer for abandoning you at the orphanage? It was your fault, Thomas! You were such an unruly brat!” 

The accusation brings even more cracks across Christopher’s face. A pang fills Thomas’s heart. _It was always his fault. Never Chris’s._ He swallows hard and forces himself to stare at his brother’s furious visage.

“There’s flesh underneath the porcelain!” protests Thomas. 

“The only real part of me that remains is my torso. Like a soft-bodied porcelain doll,” says Christopher contemptuously. 

“Look in the mirror!” 

Christopher glances in the mirror and flinches when he sees the crack. He quickly looks away, the contempt multiplying across his face. 

“Tormenting me will never be enough for you, won’t it? You also have to make me look at my own decay!” 

He holds Thomas’s horrified gaze for a few moments. 

“This is why I abandoned you. You never knew when to stop,” hisses Christopher. 

_Crrrick._

A massive crack nearly splits open Christopher’s head after the remark escapes from his painted lips. A fearful gasp escapes from Christopher’s throat and he buries his face in his hands. _Why was it always his fault?_

“As much as I’d like to give you exactly what you deserve, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” mutters his brother. “Kaito will have to do it for the both of us.” 

The name of his brother’s ex-student brings a chill down Thomas’s spine. He looks around frantically for any glimpse of Kaito but finds nothing. 

“N-no, please...I’m sorry. You’re...you’re more than this. More than just a doll queen. You’re my brother and I’m sorry that I for—”

_Skrtskrtskrtskrtskrtskrt._

The sound of something scrabbling across the floor makes Thomas shut his mouth. He turns to his brother and sees a grimace from underneath his hands. The sound of an almost inhuman screech is heard from the depths of the hallway. _Oh God._

“Please, make him go away,” begs Thomas in a desperate whisper. 

His brother remains silent, cradling his broken yet unbroken face. Did his brother actually enjoy his porcelain skin more than his own flesh? 

“I’ll do anything,” he whispers. 

“What can you even do? You’re dead,” hisses Christopher. 

_Skrtskrtskrtskrt._

Thomas wets his lips and angles his head away from the horrifying scratching sound. He looks into his brother’s cracked face, where he can see the tip of his brother’s sharp nose peek through the porcelain. 

“There’s flesh underneath this. You have to believe me,” whispers Thomas urgently.

“It’s a black abyss,” snaps Christopher, his face continuing to crack. “I’m ugly if I’m not made up, as you said.”

_Skrrt...skrrrt…_

A guttural scream echoes down the hall and Thomas freezes. Christopher shakes Thomas off and walks down the other side of the hall, hands buried in his face. 

“It’s always your fault, Thomas. I hope you know that,” he hisses as he leaves.

“Please don’t leave me,” begs Thomas breathlessly. 

His brother continues to walk down the hall, not acknowledging his pleas. Just like when Thomas was being led away by the orphanage’s manager with Michael. No matter how much they pleaded or cried, Christopher remained silent, his expression unchanging. Like a porcelain doll.

“Uhmassshh….uhmash…,” groans a familiar voice from behind. 

Thomas refuses to turn around and acknowledge the voice, even though a part of him begged him to. Instead, he closes his eyes and begins to count each time the body drags itself towards him. _You hypocrite._

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

Four. 

A plastic hand brushes itself against his ankle. 

“Die,” growls Kaito. 

Slowly, Thomas pulls his shaky hands away from his face and forces himself to look down at the thing grabbing his leg.

He wishes he hadn’t. 

A pair of tortured blue eyes stare up at him in anger, bloodshot and angry. With his free plastic hand, Kaito drags himself towards a nearby table and painstakingly crawls up the wooden leg to stand. With one hand always on the wall, he makes his way towards Thomas on stiff plastic legs. 

_Click. Clack._

Blood continuously drips down his chin and he dips his free hand into the mess. With painstaking effort, he drags his fingers across his pearly white teeth. 

**_Repent_ ** **,** he writes. 

“ _H-how?”_ whispers Thomas. 

He looks deep into Kaito’s eyes, the muscles around them twitching. As a plastic hand wipes away the blood, the other begins to write a new message. 

**_Suffer_ ** **.**

If he reached his hand out, he could touch Kaito. His hand shakes in fear but he takes in a deep breath. _It wasn’t Kaito’s fault that he looked like this. It was his._ He takes Kaito’s hand before he can regret his decision. A pained shriek escapes from the sealed pair of teeth. Kaito raises his hand and smacks Thomas across the face. The two tumble onto the marble floor, a mixture of perfume and blood filling Thomas’s senses. 

“I ate oo,” hisses Kaito. “I eallee, eallee ate oo.”

Plastic fingers dig into Thomas’s arms, the nails sharp and bloody. He can feel Kaito’s nails sink into his flesh, inch by inch. Despite that, the face above him continues to smile. The sharp plastic sinks in deeper and deeper, breaking his first layer of skin. Thomas lets out a whimper of pain as he feels the sharp nails draw blood. Yet the fear has completely paralyzed him. There would be no use in trying to reason anything out with Kaito. The anger and pain burning through his eyes was too much. Often, the mirror had shown him those same eyes. 

_Restless nights from dreaming about the fire. Moments where he would aimlessly pace, yanking out tufts of his hair, Tron’s laughter playing in his mind. Times when Christopher would relentlessly chastise him, his lips sealed out of enforced respect._ He wonder what Kaito was thinking about.

Everything of his, from Kaito’s disgustingly sculpted hair, his sickening perfume that melded with the metallic scent of blood to his stiff way of moving filled Thomas’s every pore. He had created this monster. Kaito’s fingers sink deep into his flesh, blood pooling across Thomas’s shoulders in a profusion of warmth. His blood trickles down his skin, melding with the pain of his splitting flesh. Distantly, he can hear himself screaming. 

“Die.”

_Crish crish._ His tendons snap in a series of fleshy creaks, barely heard over his screams. **_Suffer_** continues to stare into his face, the smell of fetid blood now the only thing in the air. When Kaito’s fingers reach his bones, he feels Kaito’s hands tighten around them. _Plish plort._ Slowly, he can feel his arms being ripped from his shoulders, the sound of his snapping muscles joining in with the orchestra of anguish. Blinding pain fills him to the point where words have completely left his brain. Yet he doesn’t lose consciousness. 

“Uffeh..,” moans Kaito, dragging Thomas’s flesh away from his bones. 

There’s a sickening snap as his arms pop out of their sockets, with Thomas losing feeling in both of his limbs. A shriek fills the air. Tears, snot, saliva and blood fill his face. He lets out another scream as Kaito fully separates his arms from the rest of his body, leaving behind a trail of muscle and gristle. Digging his hands into Thomas’s open wounds, Kaito then takes his hands away from Thomas and begins writing on his teeth, now stained a deep red from all of the blood. 

**_One for me, one for Chris._ **

Thomas reads the words in silence. Weakly, he tries to push himself away on his legs, bumping into his severed arms. He’s soaked with blood, the warmth now turning cold. 

“Get away from me..,” he whispers weakly. “Please…”

Ignoring Thomas’s pleas, Kaito rapidly crawls onto Thomas, pinning him down. 

“Not un..,” he utters, leaning into Thomas’s fearful face. 

Contorting his body into a pretzel shape, Kaito removes a shoe from his molded feet. The bent plastic shines white at its corner, pressing into Thomas’s shoulder. A bloody hand grasps at the shoe, its sky blue heel quickly being dyed crimson. Kaito raises the shoe, the kitten heel sharp and deadly. Another hand pries open Thomas’s mouth, the metallic tang of blood coating the top of his jaw. 

“Urfecc Bawbee..,” hisses Kaito as he swings down the sharp heel into Thomas’s teeth. 

_Perfect Barbie._ The words he had used to describe Kaito after all of his teeth had been removed and new ones had been forcibly hammered in. Thomas lets out a scream of pain as he realizes what Kaito was planning to do. 

“OOO! OOO!” shrieks Thomas, trying to wiggle away. 

“Urfecc Bawbee,” repeats Kaito with another swing of his shoe. “Urfecc Bawbee. Urfecc Bawbee. Urfecc Bawbee. Urfecc Bawbee. Urfecc Bawbee. Urfecc Bawbee.”

Thomas feels his teeth loosen from his gums, one by painful one. But unlike Kaito, he knows that he won’t be able to faint. _Perfect Barbie._ _Perfect Barbie._ _Perfect Barbie._ _Perfect Barbie._ _Perfect Barbie._ _Perfect Barbie._ _Perfect Barbie._ _Perfect Barbie._ _Perfect Barbie._ _Perfect Barbie._ _Perfect Barbie._ The words fill his mind, riding with the ebb and flow of his pain. 

_Crick._

He feels a tooth make its way down his throat and fear fills his chest. What if he chokes? 

_No. That was impossible. He was already dead._ The realization intensifies his screams. He would be here for the rest of eternity. One by one, he feels a tooth clatter into the back of his throat. With each harsh impact of Kaito’s heel, he could feel a tooth come free. Swallowing the first tooth, he feels its painful claws drag down his esophagus. And then another. And another. 

“OOO! AUGHHH!” he screams. 

“Urfecc Bawbee.” 

Over. And over again.

When he feels the last of his teeth leave his gums, he feels the plastic hand remove itself from his jaw, the hand now entirely covered in his own blood. Tossing the heel aside, Kaito uses his two hands to press Thomas’s jaw closed, allowing the remaining teeth in Thomas’s mouth to dig deep into his raw gums. A screech of anguish fills Thomas’s body, his torso convulsing in pain. 

“Eeeeee…,” hisses Kaito. 

His grip holds fast, despite Thomas’s struggling. 

“Eee aw o eett…”

_Eat all of it._

_Oh God._ Without another choice, Thomas forces the collection of calcium shards down his throat, the sharp points filling all of his flesh with burning pain. He swallows again, tasting his blood intermixed with the sharp pain of tooth shards. If he could die, he would. But there was nothing beyond the expanse of death, which he had already walked through. Tears fill his eyes as he swallows a third time. Kaito lets go of his jaw and drags his nails down Thomas’s sore throat. Nothing but blood fills Thomas’s senses. 

Pulling his fingers away, Kaito looks down at Thomas with contempt in his eyes. 

“...ins..,” he whispers. 

“Whah…?” croaks Thomas, his throat raw and bleeding. 

“Eeo...Eoha…”

_Oh God._ _Rio. Ryoga. Twins. They were not done yet._ Thomas lets out a low moan. 

Kaito slides away from Thomas’s body, dragging himself towards the wall. Slowly crawling up the wall with one hand, he begins to limp away, his shoe-less foot eternally perched on its tiptoes. As he watches Kaito slink away, he can see darkness enveloping his vision. He lets out another pained moan. The twins would be…

The twins would be…

He doesn’t know what they would be.


	15. Rio and Ryoga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, everyone. What a suitable day to finish this series.

_ Thunk.  _ The wind is knocked out of his lungs as he lands on his back. The lack of his limbs intensifies his pain and he lets out a low moan. Dim crystal lights hang from the rafters, swinging in the invisible breeze. Distantly, he can hear the ocean intermixed with the cries of seabirds. Their cries are shrill and persistent, as if they were in search of something.

_ He has to escape.  _

_ But where to?  _

_ Where too, indeed.  _

Regardless, he pushes himself across the floor with his legs, thankful that Kaito hadn’t also torn them off. The cold stone floor seeps into his skin, intensified by the blood on his clothes. _ Was this how Kaito had felt, as he inched away from the dolls’ bedroom? _ He remembers the fear in Kaito’s eyes as he had walked out and discovered him. Yet try as he might, he was helpless in Thomas’s arms as he was carried into Thomas’s bedroom. 

Thomas intensifies his legs’ pushing movements, hoping that he would find a staircase to fall off of. Perhaps he would be granted a brief blackout before the twins arrived. In the silence of the hall, he can only hear the sound of his boots squeaking against the tile. Crystal lantern by crystal lantern passes by, an endless array of dull-blue glows. The floor scratches into his flesh, shooting pain up his back with every movement. 

He continues to propel himself with his legs until he feels a  _ thump  _ against the back of his head. Turning to his side, he groans when he sees the hallway bend into another endless corridor. The groan soon dies down as he sees two figures peel themselves from the walls.  _ Oh God. _

_ Click. Clack. Click. Clack.  _ In tandem, the figures walk towards him. With his legs desperately scrabbling against the floor, Thomas attempts to turn around and push himself back down the hall. 

“Oh, IV, I’m so glad that you still have parts for us to modify,” drawls Rio as she walks up to him. 

Ignoring her teasing tone, Thomas forces his body around with difficulty, his legs shaking. Just as he manages to fully turn his body around, Ryoga’s voice stops him. 

“Don’t even bother. We weren’t allowed to escape so why should you?” 

Slowly, Thomas turns his head and his heart skips a beat. The twins are dressed in a mix of their previous lives, from pieces of Ryoga’s armor to Rio’s sleek pantsuit. Almost haphazardly it seems, from Ryoga wearing one of Rio’s shoes to Rio donning Ryoga’s belt. Their eyes blink in unison, opposite eyes dully shining with glass. Like a strange mirror image, their opposite limbs are made of silicone and weighted metal, clicking and clanking with every step they made. 

“Two bodies, one soul. Isn’t that right?” drawls Rio as she stands above Thomas, her single eye glinting with malice. 

Unceremoniously, Ryoga puts his silicone leg on Thomas’s chest. He looks down at him with contempt, his lip curling in anger.

“You see, if we were just one person, we’d be cursed in the body of an immobile doll. But like this, we split our punishment and still have the ability to punish you.”

Rio sneers, looking into Thomas’s agape mouth. 

“He truly did a number on you...” 

The twins continue to circle Thomas, bringing to mind a pair of mechanical vultures.

“Since you tore out Rio’s vocal cords, we have to share mine,” hisses Ryoga. 

Thomas lets out a groan as Rio grabs him by the chin. Her lifeless eye seemed to stare into the depths of his soul whilst her own eye regarded him with contempt. 

“We’re going to tear your legs off and then cut your tongue out,” growls Rio. 

“And then we’re going to rip your eyes out and do what you did to us,” finishes Ryoga. 

Thomas’s bloody shoulders ache in protest as he feels the twins lift him up. They walk down the hall, the dim crystal lights becoming brighter and brighter. Their red glow soon turns to a blinding yellow, the sound of electricity buzzing in the air. The climate of the halls have turned cold, as if they were in a room made of concrete. He feels his body laid out on a metal platform and with crushing certainty, he realizes where the twins have taken him. 

It’s his workshop. 

As Rio straps him down, he weakly looks up at the walls surrounding him. Endless rows of half-finished dolls stare back at him. They were all left in various states of disrepair, cracks and yellowing creeping across their bodies. Thomas swallows hard, taking in a shuddery breath afterwards. The dolls would never be finished.

His vision is momentarily blinded as Rio picks up a saw, its blade catching in the glaring lights. 

“Left or right first?” asks Rio to her brother. 

Thomas begins to struggle against his bonds as he realizes that there would be no anesthesia. 

“Right,” replies Ryoga plainly, as if he was merely talking about the weather. 

“Hold him down.”

Two hands, one of flesh and one of silicone holds down Thomas’ right leg. Thomas lets out a whimper of protest but is met by Ryoga’s unsympathetic eyes. He doesn’t grace Thomas with a single word as Rio lowers the saw. 

As the blade begins cutting into his flesh, Thomas begins to scream, memories filling his mind. 

“There we go. No more speaking. Only moaning, just like the slutty sex doll you are,” purred Thomas as he secured the ring gag around Ryoga’s mouth. 

He’s met by hate-filled eyes, accentuated by black eyeshadow. Thomas’ laugh that answered Ryoga’s glare only causes the hate to multiply. He ran his hands down Ryoga’s silicone arms, knowing that the light motion was agony to Ryoga’s barely healed shoulders. As he predicted, Ryoga flinches. A trickle of saliva made its way down his chin, Ryoga’s pinkish tongue hanging out uselessly.

“Ooh, that’s just precious,” chuckled Thomas as he laid Ryoga face-first onto the bed. 

He adjusted Ryoga’s backside upwards, locking Ryoga’s joints in a series of  _ click clicks.  _ His finger hooked around Ryoga’s frilly skirt, slowly tugging it down his silicone legs. The intentionally tight panties highlighted Ryoga’s pert ass, earning the flesh a playful slap. A grunt of discomfort answered him and Thomas hushed Ryoga, pulling down the silky garment. 

“Behave and I’ll give Nicole-chan some Barianite,” he whispered. 

Ryoga stiffened, his muscles growing rigid as Thomas ran his fingers down his back. 

“Does that sound good?” 

Ryoga’s stiff posture continued for a few moments. In the silence, Thomas moved his fingers lower. After what seemed like an eternity, he’s answered by a slight nod. A smirk filled Thomas’s face as he poured lubricant over his fingers. 

“That’s what I thought. Master’s slutty little drug addict,” purred Thomas as he slipped his fingers into Ryoga. 

Screams had followed soon after. Just like what he was doing now. He looks up at Rio, holding a leg in her hands. Blood covers her hands, both leaden and flesh. Unceremoniously, she throws it aside with a heavy thud and hands over the saw to Ryoga. Calmly, he takes the saw and approaches Thomas, eyes filled with ice. Rio firmly holds down Thomas’ remaining leg and Ryoga swiftly lowers the sharp blade, a flesh  _ shunk  _ filling the room. Thomas’ scream reaches a fever pitch as Ryoga slowly drags the saw into his flesh. Back. 

And. 

Forth. 

Back.

And. 

Forth. 

“You were going to endanger yourself and the other dolls if I had let you have unweighted limbs,” whispered Thomas softly to the sobbing Rio. 

Her screams, without her larynx intact, sounded inhuman. It chilled Thomas to the bone, bringing to mind a creature from the depths of the underworld. And those eyes...He had thought that they were beautiful, but on Rio’s furious expression, they seemed out of place. As if they had been forcibly shoved in those sockets and not peacefully melded with her face. She had been screaming and crying the entire night, making sleep impossible for the rest of his dolls. Quietly, he had moved her into his room, whispering reassurances into her ears. 

Amidst the screaming, he wondered if she had heard anything at all. 

Roughly, her torso violently rocked back and forth, coinciding with the shudders from her sobbing. With shaking lips, she mouthed words at him, coupled with sharp exhales of air. The combination of those wide, empty glass eyes and her furious expression made Thomas want to recoil. But this was his creation. He had to remain by her side. Always. Until the end. For a brief moment, he considered wrapping his hands around her thin neck, pressing and pressing until she stopped screaming. Yet…

Forcing himself to stare at her full body, he realized that he could never damage that pristine skin of hers. She had just been born from the depths of his workshop, a beautiful creation in her own right. With work, she could be presentable. With work, she could be happy here. Thomas pulled her close to his chest, running his shaky hand down her shuddering back. He’s answered by the ferocious clamping of teeth on his shoulder. 

_ Work. That was all she needed.  _

He looks up at Ryoga, slowly pulling away his leg with a disinterested expression. He can feel every tendon stretch and eventually snap, but he can no longer scream. The loudest snap separates his entire leg from his body, the femur being yanked from its socket with a fleshy pop. Quickly, Ryoga tosses it and looks down at Thomas in silence. Was he still human, with his teeth forcibly broken and his limbs torn away? Was he still human, with saliva, tears, snot and sweat all over his face? Had he still been considered a human, after forcibly imprisoning and torturing five people? 

Rio then hands her brother a scalpel and then forcibly pries open Thomas’ mouth. She’s answered by a groan of protest but nothing more. With one hand, Ryoga pulls out Thomas’s tongue. With the other hand, he lowers the scalpel into the spongy flesh. 

“No more speaking. Only screaming like the animal you are,” hisses Ryoga as he makes the first incision. 

Thomas’ tongue is quickly separated from his mouth and thrown to the side. No blood trickles from the open wound. Perhaps he had already bled everything out. Passing the scalpel to his sister, Ryoga steps back and walks away. Without warning, Rio jabs the scalpel into Thomas’ left eye, the side of his face that wasn’t scarred. A scream fills the room. Mercilessly, she digs the blade deep into Thomas’ socket, mashing the flesh into pulpy bits. When she’s satisfied, she digs her bloody fingers into the socket and yanks out all of the flesh, wiping it down Thomas’ torso. 

“You know, I think you’d look better with one human eye and one glass eye,” comments Rio, tapping on her glass eyeball. “Like artist, like creation.”

The sound of a cart rolling into the room chills Thomas to the bone. Ryoga soon enters his line of vision, a cloth draped over the cart. Without being told, Thomas already knows what it was. He swallows hard as Ryoga throws off the cloth. The left arm is made of the finest silicone, jointed at the fingers, wrists and elbows. The right arm is made of porcelain, stuck in its bent pose. The right leg beside it is made of plastic, the foot a single toeless shape. The left leg shines under the light, bringing to mind cold metal. At the end of every limb is a sharp spike. 

“I think it’s suiting,” begins Ryoga as he takes the left arm from the rack. 

“That the monster becomes its own victim,” sneers Rio as she grabs the other arm. 

With the same deliberate slowness, Ryoga shoves the arm into Thomas’ open shoulder. The spike digs deep into Thomas’ body, sending waves of pain throughout. Amidst his pained screams, he can distantly hear the sound of something scraping against the floor combined with regal footsteps. Just as Ryoga finishes, Rio shoves the porcelain arm into Thomas, the metal spike smashing through his scapula and nesting in his upper ribs. The footsteps and scraping noises intensify. 

A plastic hand soon darts up beside Thomas, the molded fingers stiff and immobile. Soon, Kaito’s bloody face rises from the floor and towers over him. He stands there for a few moments, bits of his blood dripping onto Thomas’ face. His eyes contain nothing but rage. Weakly, Thomas looks away and is met by Christopher’s cold mask. 

“This is only the beginning,” his brother hisses as he grabs a leg. 

Following his ex-mentor, Kaito awkwardly grabs the other leg. The twins hold down Thomas’s shoulder, the fragments of his broken scapula digging everywhere into his flesh. In unison, Kaito and Christopher shove the spiked legs into Thomas’s open wounds. His screams fill the cold concrete room, loud and shrill, like that of a stuck pig’s. He violently thrashes about, but the twins hold him down tightly. With one hand, Ryoga jabs a finger into Thomas’s bloody socket. 

“We’re not done yet,” he growls. 

Thomas lets out a whimper when he hears running. A clicking sound follows after every footfall. The light smell of cologne soon fills his senses. Pity fills Michael’s expression as he looks down at Thomas. 

“I hope with this journey, you’ll be able to realize how much pain you’ve caused,” his brother whispers as he takes a magenta eyeball out of his pocket. 

Gently, he presses the eyeball into Thomas’ socket. The coldness of the glass against Thomas’ flesh creeps up into his skull. A low groan fills Thomas’ throat as Michael pulls away and the twins release their grip. 

As he looks up at the faces of all his victims, he feels his vision begin to blur. He wonders what they were thinking as they stared down at his mangled body. Not even a piece of art, but a grotesque amalgamation of man-made materials and flesh.  _ Less than human.  _ As his world begins to swirl and pulse amidst the pain, Michael’s voice briefly pulls him out of his blurry daze. 

“We’ll see you again,” whispers Michael.

“And again,” adds Rio. 

“And again,” finishes Ryoga. 

The clarity seeps out of his pain-addled brain and Thomas begins to feel himself sink into the darkness. But no longer is it comforting and he knows that it will never be comforting again. It is a well of inky blackness, the feel of it suffocating and endless. Gripping and grasping at his limbs, it soon pulls him into the abyss. When he will return to see the sunlight, he doesn’t know. 

  
  


Birdsong causes him to stir from his slumber. His eyes open and he feels his hands fly to his face. A sharp pain fills his body but flesh meets flesh. He lets out a loud moan as the pain continuously shoots up through his body, the spikes still digging around into his insides, despite what he saw before his eyes. The memories return back to him, raw and visceral. 

_ Again. And again. And again.  _

__ What did they mean by that? He stares down at his tanned hands and then pulls the sheets closer to his body. After a few moments of staring up at his window, he realizes that his hands could no longer feel the softness of his blanket. Nor his legs, for that matter. In the silence, he closes his eyes, waves of pain still pounding against his every nerve. 

__ The door to his room suddenly opens and Michael enters, a smile filling his gentle features. A tray of tea is in his hands, steam wafting from the already poured cup. Weakly, Thomas turns towards his brother. 

“I thought that was you. Please, have some breakfast,” invites Michael. 

Not a hint of resentment fills his expression as he sets the tray down on the dolls’ table. 

“What’s today?” whispers Thomas hoarsely. 

Michael’s brows furrow in worry and he pastes a smile on his face. 

“Why, it’s the day of your celebratory tea party. Are you alright? Do we need to reschedule?”

The sound of a long and anguished scream is the youngest Arclight’s reply. The tea set and its lace covering falls to the ground, shattering into jagged porcelain shards. At the edge of the doorway, their mother’s doll continues to smile, as if relieved that it had not been her that had been shattered upon the floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is an alternate ending related to my Attached With the Arclights series. Please do not read it if you have not watched the comedic series or wish to see this series' mood tarnished.   
> It is pure crack. There is no seriousness at all in the series I created many years ago. It can be viewed here. https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCnG1n07ngptkEXuyMYc9aNg/videos


	16. COMEDIC ALTERNATE END

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As said from before, please do not read this chapter if you wish to maintain this universe's atmosphere of dark gothic horror. If you haven't seen my Attached with the Arclights series, you will also be very confused. 
> 
> If you're curious, please follow this link to the channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCnG1n07ngptkEXuyMYc9aNg/videos
> 
> Please be aware that it was made years ago and does not accurately reflect my production values today.

“Thomas.”

“Goddamnit, Thomas.”

“Wake up you lazy bastard.”

“Thomas.”

“Fucking hell, bitch, I’m not gonna wait all day. Wake the fuck up. Last night wasn’t  _ that  _ wild. I still gotta go home and make some Octo-haze.” 

A rude kick in the ribs sends Thomas rolling off the couch. The acrid smell of skunk fills his nostrils and he blearily opens his eyes. Shark-eesha, dressed in his tacky jacket, a disgruntled Chris with a Kaito wrapped around his arm and Michael stare down at him. Trying to get the dry and chalky taste out of his mouth, Thomas weakly shrinks away from the light and lets out a moan. 

“Leave me alone..,” he moans. 

“Attached with the Arclights got cancelled years ago. Get the fuck up and get a job,” snaps Shark-eesha as he sips his famous(?) cup of Octopop. 

“I had a dream..,” wheezes Thomas. 

“Oh yeah? I had one too where the booze ran freely and I didn’t have kids. Now look where I am,” mutters Byron in the background as he opens up his third bottle of early morning pinot. 

“You were all in it..,” continues Thomas as he rolls into a patch of sunlight. 

He covers his hands over his face and tries to remember what exactly happened, which was kind of hard because last night he and Shark-eesha had experimented on a new bunch of shrooms. 

“Okay, Dorothy. We honestly don’t give a fuck. Now get up and take a bath,” says Shark-eesha as he lights a blunt. 

“NOT IN THE FUCKING HOUSE!!” drunk screams Byron. 

Kaito rolls his eyes and crawls up Christopher’s body. 

“I’m horny,” he whispers, his eyes filled with lust. 

“I know you’re horny but I need to find a job for Thomas,” says Chris as he walks over. 

“He can be our babysitter,” says Kaito as he starts unbuttoning Christopher’s shirt. “I can pay him the big bucks.” 

“Of course you can,” says Christopher absentmindedly as he nudges Thomas with his foot. 

“The Galaxy can have a new bouncer.” 

“He can be an influencer,” suggests Michael in the corner. 

Suddenly, Thomas’s eyes open, still rimmed with red. He turns his head to Christopher and Kaito. 

“I dreamed of my revenge,” he whispers. 

Shark-eesha takes a loud sip of his Octopop and squats down besides Thomas. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Why the hell does Chris still get Scattered Roses in the Palm of Your Hand while my funny show, Attached with the Arclights, got cancelled? Y’see...that question’s been bothering me for a long time..,” says Thomas as he slowly gets up and grabs Shark-eesha’s blunt. 

He takes a long drag and exhales. 

“And then I came to the answer..,” continues Thomas as he stumbles towards Christopher. 

“Don’t compare my fantastic drama to your shitty reality TV show spoof,” hisses Christopher. 

“You still get a show because you’re a bitch,” says Thomas as he takes another hit. 

Thomas is eerily silent for a few moments as he stares into Christopher and Kaito’s eyes. 

“I sawed off all your limbs and tortured you. Then I set you on fire,” whispers Thomas. 

Kaito steps forwards, none of his horniness from before seen. 

“Is this a threat? Do I need to get my lawyer?” 

“Well, actually, my sister would then also need to be IV’s lawyer so don’t,” calls Sharkeesha from the back. “Cons of having an economy supported by just one person.”

“I took  _ you  _ into the house, sawed off all your limbs and turned you into a Barbie with a really gross face,” hisses Thomas as he jabs Kaito in the chest with his finger. 

“Uh. This is gonna sound uncharacteristic of me but like, maybe you should lay off the drugs for a bit, mm’kay?” says Kaito as he puts on his Gucci shades. 

Without another word, Kaito crawls out the window. In the bushes, Mizael watches with concerned interest. We never really did get to the subplot between him and Kaito but I think that’s for the better. 

“And Sharkeesha…?” says Thomas as he turns back to Shark-eesha. 

“Ye?”

“You were my sex doll.” 

Shark-eesha rolls his eyes and turns away, trying to hide his blush. Holy shit, yes. 

“And Michael was my cute pullip doll and Rio was this really, really neat looking marionette and then, like, I felt bad about everything so I set the whole house on fire. So yeah. That’s my revenge fantasy, right there,” finishes Thomas with a gusty exhale of Mary Jane. 

Christopher and Michael stare at Thomas in concern. 

“We need to get you a job.”


End file.
